I’m one of Timmy’s girls
I remember little me. Asking so many questions in my head. Voiceless voicebox. Silent chatter. I wanted to know. Sometimes the eyes of the men at the Chip Club were sad and others were delighted. Most were lonely. All were loyal.
They remember little me. And recognize me for my mother because all of them reside in 1987. I tell them,
I’m one of Timmy’s girls. They always say they thought so. Asking how my mother is.
I know some names on the golden plate up there of the dead guys. I like to pick out my uncle. And great one. Then grandpa. I can’t remember if he was on there. Danny meant more anyway. And Buster. Buster. Yeah. Did you know him? The old timers might.
They’re all old timers to me. The railing spewed splinters and the pool table coughed chalk and the leather seats had cigarette breath since the late 60’s. A fragrance both potent and wholesome; the fragrance of my city’s home.
I remember little me. She’s in the room with me, inside me. Except now my mouth moves. My voice box volume is at its max. All of my questions, I ask them. I’m still one of Timmy’s girls but I came to ask what you’re still doing here.
Six drunk ghosts of men, that sat in the chair they died in, raise their glasses to me.
The Indian in the portrait smirks.