forty dollars of regular, please
by @amy-y
i wonder when i will see a BMW as just a car
and not a haven--an earthy smelling
burnt orange cemetery for memories of road trips
with my feet on the dash, your disapproving glance
but the windows rolled too far down to care.
my skin seared in the summer sun, piling sandwich
upon iced coffee just to drive back to your house
and park in front of the TV. Picnics on the bench.
You sweating under the sunlight to see my smile.
New Haven train station, at early evening and
the middle of the night, sprinting with hands locked
toward the next adventure. Your hand off the shift
and on my leg. Trusting that we wouldn't crash
as we zipped through the woods late at night, eager
to crash and sleep the day away. Everything I've
pushed away to cope. Your broken tape player,
the heated seats cranked on my side without prompt.
Taking the long route for dinner on Whitney Ave.
Parking lot coffee dates and people-watching Sundays,
the day you drove to Montauk at sunrise to catch
the ferry while I slept by your side; the only time I've
ever seen you awake before dawn. Our movement
together; our bickering, the radio tuned to obscurities
blasting with open windows to see who noticed.
Hotel sleepovers in the Connecticut countryside, and
Rhode Island for the day. Car sex and Long Island nights
parked by the water, the humid heat in my hair,
salt and trees in my mouth. The sound of the locking
door, the key held clenched between your teeth.
The humming engine and your backwards hat perched.
I don't know which permeates my mind the most,
but when an m3 shows up in the rear view mirror
I blink back tears until it fades away.