She's got a
fast Jeep:
down the highway,
outskirts of town;
down by
neon gas stations
and the
dirty beach.
We pass
homeless men
in wheelchairs
and the
liquor mart
jammed with
cars.
Outside,
night
closes in
as waves
crash against
the sand.
I light my
cigarette
and
glance over
at her
face:
young,
bold,
sharp as
knives.
She keeps her
pale hands
tight
against the
steering wheel.
There is
no other
way out.
A music videoflashes
on the T.V.
in her
dark apartment
as neighbors
pound on
walls.
I set
my arm
around her
shoulder
and pull her
close.
The phone rings;
we don't
pick up.
The music
blasts
on and
on.
I feel like
I could
sink into
this ratty old
couch
and stay there
forever.
Suddenly,
the police
knock on
the door.
Who has
time
to answer
doors?
I take a deep
sip of
beer
and run my
palm
against her
untamed
blonde hair.
Sitting
on a porch,
quiet midnight
in Florida.
She pours
vodka
into a glass
of Coke;
stars shimmer
like
lost diamonds
in the
midnight sky.
I hear
the sound of
her voice,
the sound of
her dreams.
I press
a plastic cup
to my lips
and take
a swig.
We have
nothing
and
we want it all.
Her voice sings,
soft and
steady,
and on
and on.
I light
a cheap cigarette
and let
the night
fall
all over me.
