NICKOL KNOLL

A semi-response to Damian Caudills 'Neapolitan.' Back when we were both cute.

Therefore, written probably over two years ago. But slightly edited tonight in 2012.
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I switched a convenience store in Buffalo, New York

for a hill in Buffalo Grove, Illinois.

& my friends & I could see the Holy City— our Chicago— its faint

ridiculous twinkling sky scrapers. We once flew a kite towards its skyline.

It wasn’t New Years, but it was 2 am &

I once remember being in Julies room

on the 13^th floor of State & 8; watching

the snow fall up like it was New Years.

Avoiding the resolution rush we wanted donuts instead of ice cream.

& to save money we purchased the day old bunch. & while

sitting at the VFW- esq shop we knew this wasn’t a New Year for us, but we had

roofed a toaster earlier that night on top of our elementary school & stood on top of Lake Michigan throwing chunks of ice towards the open water.

& none of it mattered because we were

making up stories of the janitor who would later find that hunk of steel or how one of us could be drowning at this very moment. Again and again slamming into the temporary edge. No one willing to jump in.

& we were too busy spinning on the red plastic spitting jelly between our tongues & teeth to notice the arrival of a couple wanting nothing more than their donuts and drinks double bagged.

& later we knew there would be no post-it notes on our favorite playground

saying we were “sorry,”

for whatever crap we deemed unlimited.

& even later it would be o.k. to bop to the beep of Okkervil River

and relating each lyric to something tragic in our lives.

Yet I would pull the drivers card & claim all seven of these boys were my co-pilots &

we would swerve like Kennedys magic bullet &

SIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG off key,

shouting to the passing lanes that “you never earned your soul,” in which I’d break hard at a stop light whispering softly “I know."

-sonja lynn mata