- I look for you
in every stick shift, in every pre-1999 Mazda Protégé,in every Ford because you just got a brand new Ford,an SUV in fact, you’ve always wanted one, this one’s
an automatic, and so I automatically look for youin all the cars ever, because maybe you’re insome Volvo or some Chevy, you could be a passenger,
you could be in the back seat with his handon your leg, with his tough-guy wallet with a chain,his blond beard, his tattoos, his kids, call me
crazy or don’t. I look for you on the streetyou don’t live on anymore, by the fire hydrantyour dog loved to shit next to, in your gravel driveway,
in the rocks I pick up from it in case there’s any trace of you,maybe a bobby pin, an earing back, a Wintermint Orbit wrapper,glitter. I look for you in our neighborhood
even though you moved away, in the movie theatre,the consignment shop, the lace dress in the window,the chili parlor, the trash can, the fries from the bar,
extra salt, the CVS. I look for you on the sidewalkin the beer bottles, the cigarette butts, the Wendy’s cups,I even touch the party streamers, the dead fireworks and their ashes.
I rub my fingers together, leave the stain. [End Page 70]
Lisa Summe was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, where she earned her BA and MA in English at the University of Cincinnati. She is an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech, associate editor of Toad, and senior editorial assistant of The Cincinnati Review. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Smartish Pace, RHINO, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere.