Sally is driving, I throw my bags and books

in the back, where she gave a hand job

to Kyle D. It wasn’t love.

Windows down, after school doodling

with a steering wheel

and four fast rubber ones

spinning beneath our skirts.

Sally’s pores like donuts

I track beauty, she’s concerned

with what makes a life

a story. Always asking, This could

be one, couldn’t it?

And it’s just us sticking around.

We coat our throats with Gatorade

Cool Blue like moving 65 miles per hour

is some sort of exercise.

There are ways to kiss without

taking sight from the road, like holding

hands and petting hair,

like butterfly blanket soft. 

Sally, I say, Sally, again. She drops

medicine in our eyes, then me

at my driveway.