10.14.2009

The Monte and a Skeleton.

We were seventeen
and almost virgins.
Couldn't hold our beer worth a damn
let alone our liquor.
Our cars had been around
the block, but we hadn't.
His was a knockoff of a common
car of the time, a terrible teal sedan
that reeked of suburban complacence;
mine an awful beige boat
with two massive doors as heavy as I was
and a front end that made
potential cutter-offers think twice.
Our portable CD players
plugged into our tapedecks
and we parked in the same
two spots on South Street
Monday through Friday
rain or shine or teenage angst.

We swore we were it, man.
Even had a band.

A few times at red lights
he made the mistake
of letting me get behind him
with that fifteen-year-old beast o' mine.
I'd let off the brake just enough
to snug my bumper against his, then
tap the gas in a mock attempt
at pushing him into traffic.
His eyes would flash wide
in the rear-view mirror
as his foot slammed on the brake
to try to stop the slow forward roll.
Whatever sophomore girl
was in his passenger seat at the time
would laugh. I'd blow smoke out the window
and smile as my torn speakers blasted
what then seemed to matter.
But music, like jokes, get old.

I wish I had it in me to rear-end
a friend while driving these days.
Whether the surveys admit it or not
we're gods at seventeen.

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