Cold linoleum, cold moon, shards of glass.
The clod of clay beneath my cheek, face pressing
hard on the floor. There were screams at Mickey Dee’s
when the tall kid hit the floor hard, his dreadlocks in real blood,
not just catsup blasted from a plastic bag.
He just hit the floor hard, French fries falling like gentle mercy
on his smooth face. Then two more shots, and we all hit the floor.
Jackson, lying on my left side, whispered, "The kid wasn’t bad,
just f___ed the wrong girl." The dead kid’s big eyes keep
staring at the shattered door like it’s the way out. I’m cold under this
orange plastic seat, Jackson whimpering, lying on my left leg so it
goes to sleep like when I was a baby.
Jackson and me just wanted cheeseburgers.
What’s more important at Mickey Dee’s than burgers and fries?
Everyone down on a dirty linoleum,
hunched like clumps of clay.


Copyright Mary Lynne Evans, 1995


Mary Lynne Evans’ poetry has appeared in Brussels Sprouts, Toy Boat, and Surprise Me. She works as a land use planner and lives in Seattle.