I Think About the Beanie Babies©: Tony Scamihorn

April 20, 2020, Kate Belew With Tony Scamihorn (Chicago)

I waited at the house in the country, empty, boarded up 

a bowling ball in the backyard suggests perhaps once life lived here

and an empty bottle of vodka, scraps of lace, the things I've forgotten balled up 

a broken clock on the wall reminds me I should just move on

each day now feels like twelve years and I think

maybe I'm just the plot twist in someone's dirty romance novel

maybe I'm a pair of fuzzy dice in the trash. 

If I played the lottery, maybe this time I will win?

I buy my tickets with dust bunnies, and chapstick. 

The man behind the counter points lazily to the Newport Lights. These ones, right?

And I have forgotten how to make mouth words today 

My thoughts are plastic Bic© Lighters, let's burn this fucker to the ground

And so I do. And so that fucker burns. I waited at the house 

for twelve years, feeling like I was trapped, too afraid to leave

but all the time knowing that I lived here once, I existed

I think about the Beanie Babies© buried somewhere in the basement

And how I used to love nostalgia, holding it in my arms like a child running away from home who thought a bag of cereal and a blanket would last them a week.