I once knew a girl named Ginnifer Green,
whose hands were like a pair of Buddhas.
Somewhere, she had a switch, always “On,”
so you never knew if you were going to the
movies, or over the fence to steal rotten fruit.
We’d get buzzed until we could hardly stand
it — that enervating joy of being what we
were. I’m sure I’ve had better things to eat,
now that I’m an adult and can afford the
luxury of discernment. But Ginnifer’s smile
is something I can never have again, and
that was a sweet world, in our boozy spit.
What would I trade to once again be out
on Ginnifer’s white driveway, toeing the
gravel? That laugh. That flash of teeth.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 5. The prompt was to write a Golden Shovel, which is a bitch of a form, let me tell you. Here’s the poem I worked from:
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
— Charles Simic
Do you see what I did?