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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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