LAST WORDS

LAST WORDS

for Jenny W


She asks:
You gonna make it?
You say:
Depends on how far we’re going.
A grin, a flick of ashes, cracked window
and dash-lights on lipstick lips, because tonight
everything is rhinestones.

When the radiator heats
and vinyl becomes friends
and radio crackles weather report:
The next three days look clear.

We’ll not talk now about falling
to stand, sand in shoes and sunburns.
Reckless brave living, a good motto then,
with fishing poles and a river to catch,
a backseat of blankets, beer,
the dog we drove in with.

We’ll not speak of teenage
night with stolen parents’ bottle and when
we hit the brakes and shit to hell it all skidded
sideways. They say she never felt a thing.
The dog ran off and was never seen again.
Her mom went to the spot the next day
and picked up every shard,
put them in a keepsake box.

Could we end this way and still compose
a portrait: two kids, a yearbook, a term paper the
English teacher liked, said: You’ve got it kiddo.