There’s Main Street
where we drove up and down holding
hands, drinking PBR ‘til the sun
crept up while the rest of his hometown slept.
There’s the neighbor’s corn field he tore up
and lost his pickup’s license plate in. He never
did find it, neither did the cops, and that’s okay.
There’s the run-down gas station you prayed to God
took credit cards at five in the morning. To your right
is the ice cream parlor he took you to on the hottest
day of July. You sometimes swear you can still smell
that cherry vanilla sundae, sliding off the cone,
melting onto the concrete sidewalk.
There’s the turn to his house you used to take
just to see if he was home, and he usually wasn’t.
So you kept on driving.
Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and crazy cat lady. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. When not reading or writing about sex and death, you can find her at the local coffee shop.