Permanent Press, poem by Naomi Hurtienne

You sat, perched on a
broke-down washer,
its lid taped shut.
you had peeled off the
brown paper bag with
"Out of Order" scribbled on it,
and stuck it to your Levi's.

I was half-drunk from the
32 oz. Michelob I bought
from the Jr. Food Mart
next door, and I thought of
running away to Key West.

Two beach chairs. One cooler.
I tell you that I want to live in a Corona
commercial, only I have two Lit finals
tomorrow and paper on “Domestcity in
Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter”
on Thursday.

You light up a Kool filter king,
ash on the floor,
and grin.
You say, "Reality ain't for us."
I tip my beer back in agreement.