Casual Conversation
I ask our neighbor Craig
who grew up here and knows
everything about everybody
about Eddie-who-lives-around-the-block.
Did he move out?
Did his Mom die?
The windows are boarded up
and I don’t see his old Chevy.
Craig waits, which I take to mean
he wants me to explain my curiosity.
I used to pass his house on my walks,
and it seemed like he was flirting with me
so I started going down the alley to avoid him.
The last time I talked to him
he said, So you’re too good
to even wave at me?
I must have driven by one time
and not seen him and besides,
he looked skeletal (70 pounds,
he told me. I been real sick.)
Then he took out a cigarette.
“Well,” Craig tells me now,
“he lost it last year.
Some kids said something
and he railed at them,
saying things he shouldn’ta said –
he musta threatened them
or maybe he waved around a weapon –
so he got locked up for a bit.
While he was in jail, the kids
broke them front windows.
You seen them windows, right?
He never comes out now.”
Hey thanks, I say. That explains it.
How They Do It
We sit side by side in English class
two nineteen-year-olds with
long, straight hair and dangly earrings,
see each other one day in the cafeteria
eat, talk, laugh, decide to meet again
next Thursday after class.
I am working twenty hours a week
taking a full-time load of classes.
She hedges when I ask if she works, too.
Do you have a boyfriend? she asks.
No, I say. Focusing on school.
We meet one more time.
I make good money, she says.
I’m saving for when I transfer to State.
She pauses, looks me over carefully.
I do sex, you know.
With guys. I don’t actually do it.
There are other things they like.
I’m saving myself for someone I love.
You don’t have to do it all
unless you want to.
I could introduce you to someone.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has published poetry and prose in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review. During the pandemic, she sewed masks for a women’s shelter and scanned photos spanning decades.
I ask our neighbor Craig
who grew up here and knows
everything about everybody
about Eddie-who-lives-around-the-block.
Did he move out?
Did his Mom die?
The windows are boarded up
and I don’t see his old Chevy.
Craig waits, which I take to mean
he wants me to explain my curiosity.
I used to pass his house on my walks,
and it seemed like he was flirting with me
so I started going down the alley to avoid him.
The last time I talked to him
he said, So you’re too good
to even wave at me?
I must have driven by one time
and not seen him and besides,
he looked skeletal (70 pounds,
he told me. I been real sick.)
Then he took out a cigarette.
“Well,” Craig tells me now,
“he lost it last year.
Some kids said something
and he railed at them,
saying things he shouldn’ta said –
he musta threatened them
or maybe he waved around a weapon –
so he got locked up for a bit.
While he was in jail, the kids
broke them front windows.
You seen them windows, right?
He never comes out now.”
Hey thanks, I say. That explains it.
How They Do It
We sit side by side in English class
two nineteen-year-olds with
long, straight hair and dangly earrings,
see each other one day in the cafeteria
eat, talk, laugh, decide to meet again
next Thursday after class.
I am working twenty hours a week
taking a full-time load of classes.
She hedges when I ask if she works, too.
Do you have a boyfriend? she asks.
No, I say. Focusing on school.
We meet one more time.
I make good money, she says.
I’m saving for when I transfer to State.
She pauses, looks me over carefully.
I do sex, you know.
With guys. I don’t actually do it.
There are other things they like.
I’m saving myself for someone I love.
You don’t have to do it all
unless you want to.
I could introduce you to someone.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has published poetry and prose in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review. During the pandemic, she sewed masks for a women’s shelter and scanned photos spanning decades.