Shelbyville Revisited Pt.1

Peter Braddock

Everything here is about the same, except
for a tree or two missing here and there.
The new familiar truck smells like piss this
time, but the same heel hole exposes
its underbelly from the driver’s seat—
even a small candy wrapper wedged between
the seats feels like it was mine from yesterday.
Toledo didn’t happen—I’m still staring at
a picture of a beautiful woman smiling
over the Spanish roofs—but it did.

All I want is an apple from the refrigerator,
my elbows digging into the rails overlooking
the east side of Toledo, where two people sit
on swinging chairs, and my apple scruffs
blowing away in the wind.