By J.J. Colagrande

09_kc-mcgovern5Of all the rowmantic places for young loveaz to meet in New Yawk: the fifth flaw of the Whitknee like as soon as the ellavada opens, or buy-da win chimes of Sockrateez Paawk in Long Eyeland City, or the LOVE peece in the PRATT statchu garden—our fateful encounta took place at Pathmaawk; eyeill tree, in front of the canned goods, buy-da green beans, to be precise. Two random caawts hurled against each odda in the third eyeill of the supamaawket; the third eyeill, evokin the trinity, it couldn’t be happenstance; it hadda be fate. Dat’s what I thought the first night afta our meetin, five yeers ago allredee, the night I wondered if heed call. He wuz the first boy I eva gave my numba to. I wuzza virgin at faawteen—Dickie tree yeers my seen-ya. Back den I wore a tiny gold cross round my neck. In five yeers my neck accessaries have been true quite a mettamorefasis, a tiny gold cross, to a spiked ledder colla, to a hemp twine with a glass tiadrop, to nutin, which is what I’ve worn fore-a good yeer, nutin.

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