The wal-mart cashier asked for identification
When I attempted to buy white-out,
But did not question
The corkscrew that was previously scanned
And dropped into the blue plastic bag.
"Are you eighteen?" He asks,
Holding the correction fluid in his hand.

The newspaper reported that
"Children are getting high off Nyquil;"
My father kills his colds
By chugging half a bottle before sleeping
And says he feels great in the morning.
I tell him he only feels better
Because he has passed out during the night.

When Anita crawled out the window
To meet her boyfriend at three a.m.,
She didn't know that the police
Would later stop by her home
To tell her mother she won't be returning.
"But that's impossible," her mother said,
"She's asleep in her room upstairs."
Traffic was grid-locked on route 302
And I stared at the white cross
On the side of the road,
The lettering worn off the front,
A faded pink ribbon around the top.

"You should talk to Sagar," Brendan says,
"He's a cool kid."
Maybe later, I say,
But Sagar was locking himself in the bathroom
And tying a rope around his neck
To test if he could actually
Cut the oxygen to his brain.
When I pay my respects,
I take off my shoes before entering the house,
The one on the corner we call the Barbie mansion,
Because it was painted a hideous pink.
I sit cross-legged on the living room carpet
Beside the shrine, a picture of a dark-skinned boy
Illuminated by candles surrounding it.
"Were you a good friend?" his mother asks,
Her soft, Indian voice hardly audible,
And I tell her that I was.

"Who drinks on a Monday?"
"Alcoholics," James answers,
As he enters the liquor store,
Disappearing into aisles of bottles.
I think he is still killing himself
Slowly,
Working toward an empty grave
Because his time hasn't come.
They say he did it in the front yard
So his mother could see when she comes home,
Her son collapsed on the front porch
With a hunting rifle in his hand.

I wear your shirt
With the stains that won't come out;
It has hung in my closet long enough
That I cannot smell you anymore.
I look at the grease stains,
Remember when you showed them to me
Like I hadn't noticed them already,
And I know I will keep hold of it
Long after I stop wearing it.
I probably will see you
One day as I wear it
As we pass along the highway,
Or in wal-mart's hardware department,
Or amongst the aisles in the liquor store.