The children held a competition,

building snowmen. It was an all-day

affair, bundled munchkins with

red cheeks and furrowed brows

scampering from yard to yard like

little Giacometti gods at work on

the Art of Man. In the end, there

was no one to judge who won,

nor guidelines to rate the melting

men, and the children had to content

themselves on the joy of pure creation


Sal texted me the other morning to talk about

David Foster Wallace and Peaches the pit bull

and let me know his boss was listening

to the Grateful Dead as he pulled into the parking lot,

though I believe what he really wanted me to know

is that he isn’t mad at me for my sudden inability

to attend his wedding in Dallas on Pi Day

after I was the only friend from New Jersey

who said Yes like Molly Bloom.

Which is a relief:

I wouldn’t want my last memory of Sal

to be bug-eyed in his underwear at 6am,

searching for his glasses on a table littered

with cans and roaches,

plastic cups, his beard sparkling with cocaine

as sallow dawn crooned over Atlantic City like vomit

and tugboats fixed underwater waste lines in a bay

full of bodies and condoms and tears of regret

and seagulls mocked Day’s realization

with a portentous cacophony that signaled

this is how it’s going to be from here on out,

adults at last.

G. R. Bilodeau is a peripatetic poet from the banks of the Ramapo River. Their work has appeared most recently, or is forthcoming, in As of Late, HASH Journal, SurVision, NINSHAR Arts, and Twin Pies, among other journals and anthologies.

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