Hot Cheese Up Front

Amherst, Poetry

My face is getting pulled in more directions than I’m used to.

Gravity’s really kicking into overdrive, tugging with heavy pockets of

Little coffeeshop vodka bottles.

Through the streets of a college-stricken Friday night in Amherst.

I got to act myself this time the party came round.

I acted like an indifferent fool, dancing his way across whatever steps he chose to take.

Joy- pure, simple, and undeniable.

I still feel like I’m letting her down, and him, and me.

“How’s that concert.”

I was what I acted, and my conscience snapped at me hungrily.

Tug along, give a sprint for good measure from the corner of North Pleasant

To the bus stop- sprinting and bus stops will be synonymous.

We made it, with time to spare to harmonize crossed with John the lion and impress ourselves.

Others joined in for the mutual spectacle of two mutual broes in their element.

We take all we can get from our surroundings, like overconfident conquest was in our blood.

Bus comes, Peter Cache and Matty Ede are there and they’ve changed with time.

The channel took me again, I knew it was time to part.

“Where are y’all going?”

“Antionio’s.”

Say no more, I’m there.

The scene was hot and furrowing with the promise of Hot Cheese Up Front.

Undeniably college, undeniably cool. Dank slices going straight to your facehole for $1 a whack.

It was a classic. It was sacred space by the Kendrick Place.

The air wriggled with the collective of energy of post-barcrawl collegiate types
Not looking to end their night.

So we caught up to the line peaking out the door and faced the surprise draught screaming from the doorstep.

Someone within earshot fumed quietly, resigned. They were days away from their feelings turning into spoiled cottage cheese in an unplugged refrigerator torso.

So I spoke sweet about cheesy ends to the means we’d receive regardless, that our patience would be rewarded and the moment would be as great as we wanted it to be. Shitty people can’t take Hot Cheese Up Front from us.

Then he bought me a slice, bless his soul. He thought I was the kind of guy I don’t think I am.

Regardless of moral identity conflict, I burst with gratitude towards him,

Dropped a piece of hot cheese on the shirt he wore accidentally.

What kind of front is that? Dingus.

 

I’m too gone to let meticulous empathy take me now.

I see myself blurred in a busy mirror landscape. The camera does as well. A pizza box flies in front of my face in the picture, steals my thunder in a way Hot Cheese Up Front deserves.
Bless the Hot Cheese Up Front with the kindness every person deserves.

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