Junkyard Apology By Nick Soluri

                     Zak Zavada Flickr


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junkyard apology

you were an old broken down
hunk of junk sitting there in
a junkyard full of scraps of metal

& when rain came you
rusted & turned every shade
of purple & blue & teal

small buttons on the ground
you left in the sand as you
flung off a shirt & decided to fly

i remember those days when the
sun was out & the ocean was there
pleading for us to return for more

coffee taken with too much sugar
i always wanted you to stop
being the way you were so

i could make you the way i wanted
you to be & how i saw you
standing in a mirror next to me

& the light hit your face & nothing else
& the phone was ringing but neither
of us cared about who was on the

other end because we didn’t need
anyone else to be with
or at least i felt that way

& sand in your toes as you walked
around beach houses we’d snuck
into to steal peoples clothes so

we could be someone else for once
instead of being who you were
& how i interrupted everything

& how i didn’t notice because
i was too busy looking at
your face & not you

i went back to that old junkyard
looking for more broken parts
of you to fix & found nothing

but buttons blue as rainy days
& pocketfuls of sand from
beaches i’ll never go to

& mirrors without you in them
& shells without sounds of the ocean
& pieces of you i wanted to see but didn’t notice
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Nick Soluri is an undergraduate at Union College in New York.  He’s been previously published in Boston Accent, Albany Poets, Occulum, The Slag Review, and others. His social media links are all @nerkcelery.  

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