By Franki Elliot
I’m not quite sure what this means
but those late summer nights are
something I can never forget,
smoking cigarettes on the porch
thinking of who we would become.
For a week,
you carried my short story all folded up
in your jeans pocket,
said you felt sorry for the main character in it.
That main character was me, of course.
You were going to be a musician,
me a writer.
Now you’re in Nashville,
I’m in Chicago.
We never knew we’d become no one.
How the fuck did we become no one?
But today I read a sign at the bookstore on Milwaukee,
it said: REMEMBER WHO YOU WANTED TO BE.
So I’m telling you cause I know it’s autumn
and I know how much we hate the autumn,
Wanted to be.
About Franki Elliot