I held the road between my thumbs
and steered us around our burnt-up town
before I went north, one last good week
we couldn’t help
but cruise the bars, searching
for skirt, cheap beer, a jukebox
we could dance to––nowhere
in particular. A glance some bartender
or working girl slid down the slick, dark wood
would fool us into thinking we were cool
enough to lob back
slow-rolling, golden one-liners.
And who’s to say we weren’t? Lurching
from one dive to the next,
you’d jab my shoulder
whenever you thought you saw the quick,
blue splash of the law
waking up. We tapped our ash
against the busted radio
and hollered cheers we made up
in the thudding rush of black air,
together calling out salutes
to bottle necks, to run red lights,
to sloshed love, to another couple nights in town,
to getting drunker, older.