Today I thought I saw an ex-love
driving an old Mercedes
with stinking exhaust.
He had a beard
and drove slowly
as if he had no where to go,
as if he wasn’t the younger man
I held captive
in my memory.
Years ago,
right there in the dark—
we became birds
standing on a wire of resistance.
He was a flight risk.
I had a nest.
Ex-loves are panhandlers
of the heart.
They beg for remembrance—
loose change in a cup,
memories clink and spill.
Who can survive on this change?
At the intersection of Washington Boulevard
and North Roosevelt Street stands a man
with a sign that reads:
Bet You Can’t Hit Me
With A Quarter.
I pass him every Monday morning.
I’ve yet to throw a quarter his way.
Sometimes he smokes
and it’s so cold
I worry his hands are too numb
to pick up that quarter—
thrown hot from some hand.
by Sarah Lilius
Sarah currently lives in Arlington, VA with her husband and two sons. She is a poet and an assistant editor for ELJ Publications. Some of her publication credits include the Denver Quarterly, Court Green, BlazeVOX, Bluestem, and The Lake. She is also the author of the chapbook What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications 2014).
