You seemed to acknowledge that the same things I
needed in here I needed out there
a drag a rollercoaster ride a
Pacifico. I was somewhere in your body,
small cell origami hanging like a Little Tree air freshener
that could not hide the scent of that fresh asphalt my father
drove over with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth,
unknowingly piercing the clouds above,
the sky folding into the potholes where your tears would
collect & where I would be born.

Art Laboe was like a second father
seated next to you in that vermillion
Chevy. You didn’t know where you
were going just who you were going
with,
a complete stranger who didn’t have jaws for teeth at least not then.
You were too young to drive               to drink        to know     that
these slow drives would become your second home when you could no
longer wear this new life.