by Charlie Fox
When I got to January 15th, I stopped. There it was. His curt name inked in dark blue on the sickly page: Bill Stone. This cut-out kitchen looked all the same: same jaundice walls, same white cabinets, paint bubbling and peeling. Aw, Mama, I thought to myself with a blue sigh. Bill Stone came over today, she wrote in her journal. First date, warm. Cold outside. January 20th, Bill came over again. I like him. He brought me paper dolls with painted faces on them, and they make me smile when I’m alone. January 25th, Bill. Bill, Bill, Bill a thousand times Bill. By February 19, she said she was in love with him. By May, he’d come n’ gone. By February of the next year, my little body came out of her screamin’ like a bloodborne banshee. And every day until then read something like:
Bills:
.15 Donuts (Redwood store)
.75 Camels.
3.00 Stones
Or: leaves back on trees. Hot today, pipe burst. Back aches. Sally Jenkins came on over for a stone massage. Salami on rye and nucoa.
Bills, Bills, Bills, I thought, leafing through more of her journal. Boring! It seemed all she cared about were her bills. On February 15 she wrote: Gene McCarthy died at 3:30 p.m at Schroon Lake. Well, I’m glad she could remember Gene, the mailman’s head heaped dead like a mad cow on a black slab. I’m glad she paid her bills. But lookin’ at this journal, I’m a sad sack son in a cut-out kitchen, thinkin’ of that first Bill only.
Was he the one? How come she remembered her petty bills day in n’ day out, but forgot to write about Bill Stone? I couldn’t shake it. I looked into a broken mirror hangin’ on the wall and saw a flabby, black-haired man. Then, a ripple of memories, like through a magic orb: her jaundice skin, reflecting daily on the walls, big Bill, a little older with a fat stomach. Her pink, chipped, nail polish and lots of ashes. She’s waiting, waiting, watching the clock, cooking chicken and burning bread. Camel blue packages looking like little ponds amidst the white walls and table. Smoke, so much smoke, bloodshot eyes, swallowed tears. That bastard, Bill. Maybe he never returned her calls. I dared my gnarly face to heal in the broken mirror; this is the cost we pay. My forearms were stiff against the key-lime painted counter. I picked up her journal and ripped it clean in two. To her, he was just another Bill, another thing to remember or forget: chump change in the wallet of a lonely life.
Charlie Fox is a native of Chicago, Illinois and a devout Roman Catholic. He began writing poetry at age eight and hasn’t stopped since. He is grateful to his mentors along the way: Jesus Christ, Professors Brandon Woods and David Marshall of the Latin School of Chicago, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Gerard Manley Hopkins and many others. Charlie is also grateful to NYU, Simona Blat, and the entire Dovetail team for helping edit and publish these poems. God bless you all! (visit www.charliefox.space for more info).