by Lisa Vihos
It was that kind of night when your ankles itched so bad, you didn’t know if it was bug bites, poison ivy, or an allergic reaction to the antibiotic you were on for a bladder infection that you never should have had in the first place.
It was that kind of night when you went to your mom’s to borrow hydrocortisone cream, and you dragged her to come out to see the full moon with you rising over the lake like a big flood light, and you brought Gummi bears to share with her from the gas station.
It was that kind of night when the gas station attendant left the register for just a minute to talk to her ex outside, and she saw a regular customer bend over to pick something up off the ground near the pumps. A debit card. And when she looked you up in the phone book, she was amazed to find you.
It was that kind of night when you were so tired and itchy, you were going to ignore the blink on the phone machine and just get in bed with your Gummi bears, but you thought better of it, listened to the message, and went right back out without taking time to put on the anti-itch cream.
When you got there, she said, oh it’s you! And right then, you knew to be glad to live in a place with that kind of night. You were glad to be you, and you vowed to stop fretting the small stuff (or any perceived lack of anything) because that kind of night doesn’t happen to just anyone, anywhere.
The poems of Lisa Vihos have appeared in numerous journals both print and online. She has two Pushcart Prize nominations and four chapbooks, the most recent is Fan Mail from Some Flounder (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2018). She is the Poetry and Arts Editor of Stoneboat Literary Journal and the Sheboygan organizer for 100 Thousand Poets for Change. She compiled the anthology, Van Gogh Dreams (HenschelHAUS Publishing, 2018) and co-edited with Dawn Hogue, From Everywhere a Little: A Migration Anthology just out in 2019 from Water’s Edge Press.
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