Thanks to the internet,
everyone knows
that I did too.
But at least I was wearing pants.
My favorite Quiksilver cargo shorts,
which I’ll wear every moment
that I stay in this world.
No laundry needed,
because ghosts never sweat
or piss or anything.
I’m as dry as the bones
crumbling in my casket.
“Must be nice,”
Aura mumbles into her pillow
when I tell her
I’m going to meet George Clooney.
That’s our code
for “the beach,”
because when lifelong Baltimoreans
say “down to the ocean,”
it sounds like
“Danny Ocean.”
When we were kids,
our gang of friends
pretended we were in Ocean’s Eleven.
My big brother, Mickey, was Clooney
and I was Brad Pitt.
We’d stroll down the Ocean City boardwalk,
not nearly as slick as we imagined.
Our illusion of cool would crumble