Somewhere in Kansas
(or a really bad Nebraska) I drank
Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill
in a cherry Cutlass cranked
loud on the interstate, idling
at the drive-in or back behind
the house, with someone older
who worked in a garage, read
Little Women because
I asked him to, pretended to like me
as he described other women
with smooth skin who had ridden
in his car and been afraid
of speed and the sound of sirens.
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