(On Cliff Drive, 1950’s)
On this humid night

the half-painted station wagon

stuffed with all of us

bounces through crickets, tree frogs,

squeals of girls in a distant park,

through the cave cool darkness

of a final curve.

We grab at the wind,

hands sticky with ice cream memories.

Our screams on this last

breakless swoop downhill

hold no reservations,

no inkling a thrill grown numb.

We’re just children,

our skin rising

to a chilling breeze,

and in the front seat,

mom and dad

are still in love.





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