Passing by Mr. Dennehy’s — the pub
where Frankie from junior high, who stole my first-
ever girlfriend, Lizzie, because he was older
by a year and had cool blond streaks in
his dark Italian hair, works now — and smiling
into the sunshine. My first real heartbreak,
and now we three live here, in New York, ruthless
more than the halls of middle school among
the jeers and mild scuffles by the lockers,
gym-humiliation, scrawny-armed
casual viciousness. Me, Frankie, and Lizzie
all sang in the seventh-grade musical.
He tends bar now. She’s in fashion.
I’m just walking by the pub, grinning.