Damn You Charlie Wong!

I know what makes me happy,

it’s just hard to get there.

My nose starts itching 

from the grease. I reach

into the backseat for my

sweater.

                   Which one

should it be? The nine

to five suburban driveway

dream, or some wandering

mendicant never setting down

roots. Long ago he said,

“Here’s what you have to de-

cide: do you want to warm

your feet by your own fireplace

or someone else’s?”

                                         I have

so many sweaters. The green

cotton hoodie, two black wool—

one with buttons, one with a zipper—

a thick, lined flannel that passes

as a jacket and as a shirt, and then

all the gray pullover hoodies

I’ve accumulated from running

track, different organizations over

the years.

                       The years add up,

yep they do, and if I knew

I was going to live to be 200

I’d have a totally different

plan, but I’ve got to plan

on 80, so this’ll have to do.

I’m 27 soon, “Marrying age”

I said to her

                            the other day.

We wanted soup at Saigon Garden

but we were in that awkward window

between lunch and dinner. They were

closed till five, so Frugal’s

was my choice. I wanted

a burger and some fries. Her

stomach hurt. Then she downed

a breaded chicken sandwich and

moaned, “I have no self

                                                control.”

I remember playing Yahtzee in the

evenings with my parents. I remember

a Saturday morning in the English off-

ice, November, he had fingerless gloves

and Wish You Were Here on, he was

typing up poems and I thought,

“Damn that sweater looks comfy.”

Then he tore into my poems with a

red pen and I

                              was so thrilled

every time I met a girl who

played catch with my heart.

All the late nights holding hands

on our backs in the grass at

Lorel Park, staring up through

the orange Chicago night sky

until we saw stars, until

                                               shit

it’s getting late, I’ve got to

sneak back home, but let’s do this

again and again and again

                                                  the Autumn

turns to Winter and I happily pull

my sweaters on and we happily keep

each other warm by fires

                                                and then

Spring comes and Summer and we end it for 10,000 reasons.

The years add up. Despite what I

believe, I am getting older and I

am wondering if it isn’t time to

grow up a little, forgive myself

for my childish past, ask for

a second chance,

                                     and a third

of my life is gone now

                                           if I live

to be 80.

                      If I live

to be 80.

                        Well.

                                    That’d be

enough.