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.
