by Jennifer Newhouse
At the flea market,
we sweat and wander.
You lead, I lead.
We hunt for what
we didn’t know to find.
I miss everyone
and can’t say it. I miss
who they were or who
it was I used to be.
Everyone is everywhere
like any time before.
We travel alone,
stop for Chicago pizza
in Kissimmee.
By now we know
Orlando is filled
with tourists
or terrorists, our
restaurant news anchor
flashing California’s
interstate ablaze
before jeopardy,
when we finally
get our food, and I
forget the names
of philosophers
and the state of Pluto.
So when the waiter
advises the sangria,
we obey, suck the fruit,
our mouths hollow
and puckered with vinegar.
Jennifer Newhouse earned her MFA at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She currently has work forthcoming in The Chattahoochee Review, Lake Effect, The Minnesota Review, Appalachian Heritage, and The South Carolina Review. She teaches creative writing at Chowan University and lives in Suffolk, Virginia.
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