Slipping Away

I slipped away to Texas and was invincible,
I had no middle name, nobody knew
I was already twenty-eight
or that I preferred martinis at the Ten Club
because of the chocolate strawberry
hanging on the lip of the glass.

I was living here and there,
touching bases called Easter
Christmas and my father's retirement party.
Holiday gifts from Mexico,
but gray space in between.

Living there and here it's easy
to get caught in the middle.

Slipping away was having
no last name or favorite color,
going from Tuesday to Saturday in one breath
and never recalling small things

like the smell of home and the old tavern
in Spring Lake where you can still get a drink
for two bucks any day.

(In Reynosa the margaritas are only fifty cents.)
At three a.m. drunk on good tequila
when I stumbled to my door no one knew back home
that I had driven blindly on a foggy night,
seeing patches of road but missing my exit.

It takes twice as long to get somewhere
when you can't see what's in front of you.

This is slipping away.



c. Melissa K. Dalman, 2001