The Return Trip
The last time I was this hungover with my mother
was on the train ride back from that new years I spent
chasing around the city with Paul, the one I talk about
enough that it should be my last memory of him,
even though it isn’t. She asks how I’ve been doing.
I tell her that I’m tired, and she knows that I am lying,
the same way I did then, even though I’m not.
She does not bring it up again.
She asks me about the weekend.
There are hundreds of things I think to say
and don’t. How I watched a shotgun sweep the room
and later drank until the barrel blurred.
How I walked across uptown with a girl I want to miss but don’t.
How there is a letter from my father that has been collecting dust,
because I’m too terrified to respond.
Instead, I mention the trains.
As if I’ve moved at all.