Here's the poem I wrote in the little notebook. Poetry swappers, avert your eyes.



Miss Teen Your Name Here



She’s walking backward through the plate-glass door

Like an unmarked bill or a press-on tongue.

That blank sash sounds familiar, taut

In wind and calm. Some blonding perp’s

Quick-witted halo can’t compete with her

Desire for cash and carry, sand-polished for

A row of empty chairs.



Inside the store there’s no discount rack

Hanging where deciding ought to be.

It’s not like Tennessee or Ocean

City when the scrim’s a savior, cold

And peek-a-boo lovely in the feral light.

Call off the trainer and the prep-school-strut-

Talking carnies: she’s on the verge of something

Real here, like a way to talk about

Herself in the third-person plural.



Mom’s waiting out in the car with Brad

And the black lab puppy. Tell us how to sort

The finalists from the forward, spilt

Like butter over the upturned eye.