Some Saturdays, I’d wake up smokey
and alone
with my coat and my shoes
still on.
I was newly 19 or 20 maybe,
and for the low, low price
of college tuition,
I could shuffle to the cafeteria
and make myself a monster
of a sandwich from the unsupervised
deli bar. 

Picture it:
Tomatoes the throbbing red
of a headache, a lacerated handful 
of iceberg, and an assault of pickles piled
underneath an absolutely lewd
slathering of mayonnaise, manhole covers
of bread hiding the succulent mess
within. 

I was a vegetarian then.
Except
for that time I was drunk
and ate biscuits with sausage gravy.
Except
for the time I was drunk
and a friend paid me ten dollars
to eat a Happy Meal cheeseburger.
Except
for some Tuesday nights
alone in my dorm room, unhinging
my jaw for the contents of a shared
minifridge.   Please,

don’t think about that. Please,
don’t think badly
about me
for that. 

Just think
about the first taste
of adulthood,
about the way the tender pulp
of a tomato drips down
the front of a wool coat
much like tears would.

Bri Gearhart Staton (she/her) is a South Dakota poet whose writing explores experiences that exist in the periphery. Bri’s poetry has been published by Button Poetry, Gather, FLARE Magazine, and more. A mother of two, her objectively hilarious children are the joys of her heart. Connect with her on Instagram @bristaton.writes