let’s get off with just the reckless and blow a .079

turn down the radio; we think we hear a songas the sirens hit our eyes flashing drop and flareits an art of the jaded and a trap of the tradeone that keeps you thirsty while you forget why you wait

he likes the yesses and nos that structure this gameand the heel-toe dance before we shudderthe tickle of our name on a page or his thumb on our waistscuffed and sliding into the cruiser

it’s fifty-two degrees and we sweat through cheap polyesterthe cement floor sticks to the backs of our thighshis baby bluespinchdialfile

in the morning, he’ll tell me my signature is the prettiest he’s ever seen