was about my Logic class—I don't remember
if it was Logic I or Logic II, whichever was in the big room
in Hoffman, by the vending machine that took credit cards,
which, at the time, I thought a marvel of technology.
We had an exam & I finished first—the whole room
stared as I walked it to the front, & then I had to wait outside
for Seth to finish his exam since I was his ride back
to the apartment we shared off Kirby,
four of us crammed into a two-bedroom.
It was a disaster. I miss it more
than you can imagine. I was the only one
to graduate on time. Josh drifted through the art department
an extra year or two. Cade was gone
before the second semester even finished,
& Seth—he was going to major in philosophy,
but he brought That One Motherfucker around too much,
the two of them so fucked on bath salts
that Seth would miss an exam his second winter
& that was it. I was thinking
about this one night we stopped at the Valero out near
his parents' place & I bought a Jamaican meat pie
& then we watched A Mighty Wind.
I can't go there anymore, that gas station—
it was shut down when the state decided a highway
shouldn't run right through the Phillips plant,
terrorism concerns & all that. I remember,
when I was a kid, when it was still
a Diamond Shamrock, that I'd buy comic books there,
& I picked up the Spider-Man 9/11 issue,
with the all-black cover. Across the street—
a dingy little taco stand where I lost a tooth once
biting into a chorizo & egg, & across from that,
the long end of the t-shaped intersection,
a church where Scott's mom worked & where
I sat in her car once & listened to his band's new EP,
the heaviness of the guitar almost oppressive,
but beautifully so. I have lost track
of the conceit of the poem. It always works that way—
the mind wanders a bit too afield
###
Justin Carter is the writer of Brazos & the editor of Some Words.