Soda Tabs

More poetry off the back wall. I would guess this was some time between 2000 and 2005.

I don’t know if teenagers still do this, but I know when I was in high school, we would break off the tabs of soda cans, counting the letter of the alphabet. A lot of us, for some reason I do not pretend to understand, would tie them onto our shoelaces.  I had a friend who would say, if you managed to spell out the name of the person you like, you would end up together. This poem came out of remembering that silly little sentiment years later.

Ah, nostalgia.

Soda Tabs

what I loved most about him was his fingers—
the way he opened cans one-handed,
and the way his knuckles would bend like a cat
curling it’s paw.

Some people might tell you about his eyes,
or his laugh, 
or the texture of his hair.

Not me.

I loved him best for the soda can tabs
he used to misspell my name, 
his yellow shoelaces,
and the cracked black nail polish
that will be with me
long after his name has gone.

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