by a contributor
I’m trying to come up with a name for my band
he said to me over shrimp
in the Italian restaurant picked to impress.
And then, for the rest of the night,
whenever he accidentally said
two or three words together
that would make a good band name,
he’d repeat them and say Band! (bam) Name! (bam)
with handmade finger guns pointed right at me.
Finally, during dessert, I gave him the finger
guns back, fired (bam)
and wished like hell I was loaded.
Vicki Wilson’s poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Family Circle, The Huffington Post, Newsweek, Writer’s Digest, Anderbo, The Southampton Review and more. She is a freelance writer and lives in upstate New York with her husband and son.