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Home again

If we lived in a big city,
and we drove fast down streets
in the middle of the city,
lights would flash by our windows
like cheap music videos from the 80s.

For now, we’re content with trees,
reflecting my high beams
and forming a tunnel,
stretching their arms over us.
Leafy-green goodness, the kind
Mom
made me eat all of.

It’s nights like these,
when we drive to your house and keep on going,
that I wonder what will happen in a year
and a half
or so.
Where will we be?  Can we come back here?  Can we still go sixty
and be lucky enough not to hit deer or passers-by or mailboxes? 
Will I have kept my driving tapes?  Will we still love "Belong"?

You point me East.
Together, we cry for forgiveness.

The seatbelt buckle
the one that automatically swings your shoulder back
against the seat
when the car starts, you unbuckle it.
Warning beeps.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m not going anywhere in this state.
I tell you so.
You hug me.
Should I be responsive?
I am, a bit.
I wonder how long it will be before we both get laid.
Will it ruin us?  Will we like it?  Will the feeling be mutual?
The tears cease.
I take you Home.

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