To Every Girl in Which a Poem was Dedicated
(and how i just changed it's name each time)

I moved my fingers-
lightly
and so very slowly
over a green duffle bag-
both my index and middle ones.
I felt the straps
the buttons
the heavy-duty zipper
from one end to the other.

There are X's and O's on the calender
which is hung in my
kitchen.
It's like a fucking
game of tic tac toe-
relentless, I was
with my pen.
Everyday was either an important meeting
or a useless attempt to make me seem
important.

My eyes fixate
back on the bag which my fingers still rested upon-
now both palms.
It was filled with clothes
film
cameras
and a super 8 trigger film camera
which my grandfather gave me when I was sixteen.

I'm not sixteen, anymore.
I can vote, go to war, drink,
drive, smoke, fuck, sleep-in,
get locked up, fire a gun
and collect welfare every two weeks-
eighty-four dollars and sixty-two cents.

I need to leave this place because we once
stood here in this very spot-
where my bag rests
where my guitar is laid
where those half empty bottles sit up.
I need to gain new memories because she once
promised me forever to this very face-
where these wrinkles rest
where these tears roll
where my hair falls.

I'd call a cab but I spent my last three dollars
on a pen I used for the calender.
Besides, where would three dollars get me, anyway-
not as far as I need to go
from here.