This poem reminds me of the Ben Folds/Joe Jackson/William Shatner piece, Common People. “Dance, drink, screw, ‘cos there’s nothin’ else to do!” Sometimes with fatal consequences.

The Last Ping

After the girl is gone,
long gone, out of character,
statistical, presumed dead,
the verifying department
hops to it, sniffs out
the revelers,
especially the life of the party,
his liquid engine of beer,
anyone with information,
to confirm names and addresses,
substantiate stories.
They watch your gestures.
Read your face.

Description: Hair Blonde,
Eye Color Blue, Height 5′ 1″,
Weight 101 lbs, phoenix tattoo
ascending from the right hip.
Bright, unintentional dropout,
inadvertently delinquent.
Boyfriend person of interest
according to the RCMP.
Always. He passes the flyer.
Her cell phone may be dead too,
last ping traced—pinpointed in fact—
to here. Right here.
Her last known location.
Right where we’re standing.
This town. Your pretty little town.

Fucken eh.
Check your property,
your shallow ditches,
So petite, she takes up little space
in one’s psyche,
turkey vultures leading us
not to her
body but to a deer carcass.
She was last seen
wearing a blue ski jacket,
white blouse, black jeans.
Parents pray
to repair the squabbles. Home.
Local kids clam up,
weighting the secret with smoke.

A teenaged girl can forget
she’s graduated
the fenced-in yards of childhood
to this vast plain
where condoms provide safety,
sympathy muttered. Crocodile.
She forgot
townies find transcendence in fury,
one vaguely recalling
Eminem shouts,
a catfight in the backyard.
She looked kinda posh,
smashed herd fumbling,
fawning, smooshing,
pushing, over, under.
Dancing, sending her sailing.