From the curb
CHARLIE PECORELLA
My neighbor rolls underneath his red sportscar with a wrench, his back
centered on the skateboard he showed me how to ride. Beach Boys
harmonies leak from the plug-in garage radio, strike his tools. He doesn’t know
about the heart attack on the fishing trip and I pretend not to. Who am I
to tell him? What am I talking about? I’d rather watch him from the curb, slit
grass leaves one at a time, try it, spit, leave damp pockets of me in the lawn strip
between road and sidewalk. Also why do people groom such a stupid thing,
why not just dump a gallon of gasoline into the soil, why mow, why miracle
seed bags. Fling false hope on a bald spot, then forget all about it. Why waste.
I’d rather listen to the wheels of his skateboard crush eroded bits of gravel
and the tiniest iterations of glass let loose on an angel’s tears. Rather catch his sweat
on my tongue than invent a memory. What am I saying? When I was invited to the home
to view him, I cemented myself to the curb, dug my heels to dust ‘til dusk. All alone
with my five senses and a sixth one that told me there was no returning from this.
CHARLIE M. PECORELLA (they/them) is a poet from New Jersey. In May of 2026, they received an MFA in Creative Writing from Hunter College. Charlie's work grapples with grief, identity, queerness, and transforming the mundane. Their poems have been featured in fifth wheel press, Porchwater Press, and Eggplant Tears, with work forthcoming in The Fruitslice. When they aren't writing, Charlie enjoys laughing, petting animals, and listening to music on their portable CD player.
