My House vs. Hers By Chuka Susan Chesney

My friend Brandy shared a Mustang with her brother.

The coupe was olive with cold brew seats.

“Want to go to the liquor store?” 

“I’m thirsty.” We were underage and bought some Coke

which was different for me because my family drank Shasta.

Black cherry, pineapple, Tiki Punch, 

a whole case of soda, cheaper than Coke,

a choice of metal cans stacked on shelves above the dryer.

There was no liquor in my home.

On Friday nights my mom got tipsy on I don’t know what—

rotten cauliflower from the crisper?

She wore her la fée verte nightie with no undies underneath

and lounged on her chaise til she got sleepy.

At Brandy’s, we watched old movies in the den—

“Some Like it Hot” or “Camelot”.

Sometimes her mom cooked dinner; but usually she didn’t, 

so Brandy would open a can of tuna, and we’d eat

sandwiches and quaff our Cokes. 

When Brandy spent the night at my house, we had lots of choices: 

canned soup, chicken pie, macaroni and cheese. 

But there was no T.V. and no place to go

except the back porch or my minuscule bedroom.

Every night Brandy’s parents bought

a fiasco of wine, but I don’t know where they drank it.

Maybe at the table on the indoor patio.

 

After we went upstairs, they watched talk shows

and poured stems of Chianti while they nestled on the sofa. 

At some point we heard her mom's mules thump  

to her bedroom on the staircase that sharply swiveled.

Glasses traipsed down her father’s nose 

while he labored on briefs 'til 2:00 am.

Chuka Susan Chesney is an artist and a poet. Her poems, art, and/or flash fiction have been published in Peacock Journal, Inklette, New England Review, Compose, Picaroon, and Lummox. Chesney’s paintings and collages have been in exhibitions and galleries across the United States.