I ate my farewell cheeseburger
in the parking lot of the neighborhood
fair-trade-locally-sourced coffee shop.
I had planned to leave town
with a mouth tasting like
a magic 75 cent day old turn over.
Something funky and locally grown
like basil and strawberry,
or peanut butter and apple.
But I was thwarted by an early afternoon closing time,
and missed my chance.
Not yet prepared to leave town,
(because it still feels a bit like home
even now that I’ve left for good)
I fell victim to the siren call of a fast food curly #7,
the memories of late night cheeseburgers,
and your loving introduction to Hardee’s.
I couldn’t bare to eat in the restaurant,
every booth reminding me of some conversation or an other
about your crazy coworkers, or my fledgling newspaper articles.
So I got my cheeseburger to go and ate it in my car,
where it was easy to imagine you next to me
eating a cheeseburger and people watching through the windshield.
(I tried not to think about the other things,
like how neither of us will live here again,
or how unprepared I was
to visit my once-and-future college home
now that it has become once-and-former,
or how in just a few weeks
graduation will scatter most of the
college home we had to come back to. )
I ate my curly fries one at a time,
dipping each one in ketchup
and chewing it slowly.
When they were all gone,
I crumpled up the to go bag and left town,
the wind howling past my doors.