by Belinda Roddie
The pretty girl who works
at the arcade just paid
for my grilled cheese sandwich
and my pink lemonade.
I'll race her on stationary motorcycles
and cars, twirl her hair like cotton candy
between my fingers. Does she want
a stuffed tiger, or a stuffed bear?
I'll impress her with my button
mashing on Street Fighter Whatever,
practice sharpshooting with a laser
gun and knock down every pixel.
I'll let her try out the game where
you gotta kill zombies with an
AK-47, and I think I'll let her win,
but she seriously kicks my ass.
I'll pay up to fifty dollars for these
games, just to see her smile. That
could buy me another four grilled
cheese sandwiches, sure, but it's
ninety degrees at the boardwalk,
the crowds are out, and inside,
the flashing lights and the clicking
pinball machines are the perfect
percussion. My stomach's roiling
from the dairy, but I still want
to play a game with the pretty
girl who works at the arcade.