What’s-Her-Face, The Janitor
by Henry Goldkamp
- We talked now and again—I really just liked to see
- the gold part of her tooth, the brass knob of the church
- that made her hands smell funny after touching it too long,
- the music pounding upstairs (while it happened), the smoke
- massaging her sister’s acreage, its delicious smell, bright
- chemicals in a mop bucket, heat in her ears boiling up
- like them and them alone are blushing. Eating parking
- lot fish with what’s-her-face inhaling fresh summery tar,
- looking at her pockmarks like a greased sky. She changed air
- filters and gave advice, unafraid of ladders, ate standing up
- over the crushed Busch can in the bed of her truck. That rattle
- told her about how fast she’s going because speedometer’s crap.
- How could anyone forget a name like that? We swallowed fish bones
- out loud, lucky guesses, and sipped denim lemonade like lovers.
Packingtown Review – Vol.9, Fall 2017
Henry Goldkamp lives in Saint Louis & New Orleans with his wife and three dogs. Most important to him is realizing how damn lucky this is. His work is in Mudfish, Hoot, Straylight, and others; his public art has been covered by Time and NPR. For more about his work, google “henry goldkamp” with a fresh drink of your choice.