He’s forty-six and still watching G.I Joe. I get the nostalgia, but I don’t get
why it happens when he’s drunk. I see it day after day, a deep-rooted sadness in his gut during intense watering, bloated for a bygone time.
It’s always the same. I sit and wonder why I stay with a waning moon.
I binge watch Rex Smith in bed, the golden beast: sunrays hair,
python hips sway & shake under the G in Gimbles.
His lips hit the microphone and it dawns on me,
I’m doing the same as he, trying to escape this sadness.
Poem by Nancy Byrne Iannucci.
Backwards Trajectory 