We cadillac down
to the drive in

theatre. We
make out

the wrong words
from the fuzzy

speaker box. We
wound up. We dress

the window wet
and wait our hands

beneath each other’s
waistlines. We hardly 

hear anything above
our walrus heavy

breathing. Waxy,
we skin to skin.

We get to

each other.
We get to crackin’

the windows
and watchin’

them whistle hot
like tea kettles.

We wane
in our own

humidity. We
way down low

in the bucket
seats. We don’t

nothin’ else. Nothin’
left to wait for

now, but again.


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