(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.