Here I am, giving the sky too much attention and lying
next to Georgia, a peach against her cheek. She gripes,
references the extinct phone booths, and checks back
every few minutes for change. I am skeptical of popular
valentines too, but this is the part of life I was warned
about. The part that isn’t cherry pie. But I never liked
cherry pie. That’s the real problem, trying to explain it.

What about her? She convinces me flowers grow in her
shoes when she doesn’t wear them and the leaf-filled
waters of park fountains can teach us more than science
channels. My real problem, she states, is watching the sea
gnaw away at shores while my muddied shoes stop me
from reaching the crowd, raindancing while levees break.
Her problem is coming to fruition without preservatives.

M. N. O’Brien received his B.A. from Roanoke College, where he received the Charles C. Wise Poetry Award. His poems have appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Right Hand Pointing, and The Ekphrastic Review, among other journals. He lives in Hudson, New Hampshire, and feels awkward writing about himself in the third person.

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