I.
Driving to a dance in dad’s silver
Lincoln, my date, blue-dressed and
madeup in the passenger seat.
The GPS tells me left and I turn,
nearly brushing headlights
with a disgruntled bald guy behind
the wheel of some white pickup truck;
the streetlights dim in reverence of the two
new suns—and the horn behind them is
red as baldie’s face.
I find myself saved by the church
parking lot right to the left. I
swerve hard, brake, hyperventilate, unbuckle
my seatbelt and step out alive, hands
to the back of my head like a criminal
--holy s***, s***,
s***! Step back in, grip the
wheel tighter, talk slower, dance till
eleven and drive her home, park in my driveway,
shower, brush, pull
back the covers and hyperventilate again.
Bawl like a death row inmate.
II.
And the sun
rises in my dreams in a pair of red
headlights, spinning bigger and bigger,
there’s a horn somewhere behind my
tongue, but it could never be as red
as the bald man pushing those lights
closer and closer and I wake up
doused in sweat like it’s gasoline, tears
like matches, hands scratching
stubble like sparks; but
never hot
enough.
Driving to a dance in dad’s silver
Lincoln, my date, blue-dressed and
madeup in the passenger seat.
The GPS tells me left and I turn,
nearly brushing headlights
with a disgruntled bald guy behind
the wheel of some white pickup truck;
the streetlights dim in reverence of the two
new suns—and the horn behind them is
red as baldie’s face.
I find myself saved by the church
parking lot right to the left. I
swerve hard, brake, hyperventilate, unbuckle
my seatbelt and step out alive, hands
to the back of my head like a criminal
--holy s***, s***,
s***! Step back in, grip the
wheel tighter, talk slower, dance till
eleven and drive her home, park in my driveway,
shower, brush, pull
back the covers and hyperventilate again.
Bawl like a death row inmate.
II.
And the sun
rises in my dreams in a pair of red
headlights, spinning bigger and bigger,
there’s a horn somewhere behind my
tongue, but it could never be as red
as the bald man pushing those lights
closer and closer and I wake up
doused in sweat like it’s gasoline, tears
like matches, hands scratching
stubble like sparks; but
never hot
enough.