Deborah Blakely 





Driving School 



Notebook, pinprick, elevator                       stopped on the first floor,


going all the way down.


In the backseat of the car


without headlights lies our demise:


a six pack of what have you got                      there ladies, and a document, belonging


to another person. I am that other person


most days; gasoline running through         the soft shell of my veins, collapsed


memories of beaches and dust, cigarette butts and MTA windows. On another day,


I might’ve followed               you


Back into that John Hughes movie,             but I already know


the end: panties displayed,


9th grade secrets on the stairwell, and Johnny Thunders


yet to play on my radio.  


Years                          later, I remember


your hardness. How it terrified me.     Like the cold, cold


beer in the bushes,               your eyes were popcorn,


I still wasn’t ready to drink.