Hanging Out

Maud Lavin

God, I love to be bored. Teasing boredom. Hanging out.
Driving up and down Cleveland Avenue, stopping at Burger King.
Walking around that Ohio mall. And again.
Trying on lipstick samples till we’re chased away.

Sitting at the beach, now, staring at Lake Michigan.
Wading in the lake’s cold water, then back to sitting.
People watching at this Chicago beach,
checking out the swimming combos that aren’t bathing suits—
cut-offs and t-shirts, short shorts and a sports bra.

My close-held hush—I grew up in the Midwest,
right in its small-town small heart, its expansive cornfields, its long, green summers.
It taught me to love hanging out. To blow up boredom like a balloon.