Proving Myself

After Jose Hernandez Diaz

A man in an Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt looks out the window of the Amtrak while his mother licks a crouton. He sees a bright pink billboard outside the Philadelphia station that reads “Jason Kelce / consider this / a placeholder for your statue.” The man in an Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt doesn’t watch football because the size of the field makes him feel too small. Before he can consult Dr. Google, the man in the Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt realizes Jason Kelce is sitting across from his mother. Jason Kelce compliments her choice in ingredients for her Sweetgreen salad, which causes her to blush and cover her face behind a leaf of kale.

Jason Kelce looks at the man in the Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt. Jason Kelce promises the man can use his Superbowl ring to propose to his girlfriend of 11 years if he ends this poem using one word from every song off The Tortured Poets Department, in order by track listing. The man in the Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt doesn’t have enough bone marrow to sell to afford a ring on his own, so he accepts. The man in the Esperanza Spaulding t-shirt thinks for exactly five minutes, then says the following:

My nails fit in the door locks. My skin always traces ink. I know the flickers of whispers destroy fools. I spin and say deranged shades, but grow with wilder sparks.

Eating Jellybeans at the Little Gay Pub

I lift the lid from the glass jar on the bar top and spoon some jellybeans on a napkin. I’ve already spent more than $30 on drinks here, and I don’t want to spend more on food. I’m entranced by all the colors leaping out on the black napkin. I pop a green one in my mouth. On the television mounted on the wall, Sally Field is crying at her daughter’s funeral. Next to me, a twink orders a drink called Unicorn Tears. I gather all the jellybeans in my hand and roll them like dice onto the napkin. I try to see if the shape or chromatic arrangement reveals anything. They don’t. The bartender then sets a glass in front of me. He tells me he had some leftover Negroni in his shaker and offered to it for me for free. I pop a few jellybeans in my mouth and down the Negroni in one shot. My mouth tastes like Sally’s grief.