Return or Lack Thereof

The blue towel hung there
like a ghost over the white door
while the mirror fogged.
I was stressed out shitting
in a hurry while the numbers changed,
on the alarm clock.

My windshield was covered in rain
the whole way and based on the radio
that’s how the whole day would continue.

When I got there I adjusted my ball cap
under the yellow letters marking up
the store front that kept the children’s
glassy eyes on us as always.

I organized cheap toys along cheap shelves
I’d seen collapse under the pressure
of the plastic.

My wife brought me a paper bag
and we ate together in her van
during my break time I would always
count the seconds for.

It had an exhaust leak but we talked
over the noise and it’s old squeaky brakes
could not appear while she was parked.

She asked if I remembered having sex with her
on a blue beach towel in the back
when we were younger
killing summers by the beaches in the South.

I couldn’t picture it but said I did
before I waded through the puddles
back inside again so desperate
to remember.

It only came back to me leaning against
the brick wall out back while smoking
my seventh cigarette.

It was July I think and everyone was sun burnt,
and the ocean was alive that year
the order hadn’t fallen yet to kill it.

I thought of suggesting going back sometime
since she brought it up so happily,
but then I stopped the thought.
I knew it wasn’t possible.