Dusk, not yet nighttime,
and we pile into the chrome-chipped car,
all jokes and shouts that echo in
quiet neighborhood shadows,
high school three weeks from
over forever, big plans ahead.
Usual spots for Fridays bubble up:
lake pavilion where punks play;
the Double-T Diner, with its
ancient Godfather selling
roses we don’t want and always buy;
the mall; Midnight Bowling;
Cinema 9; our “Hey, Mister!” 7-11.
But no one bites. We can’t decide.
“Just drive,” someone says,
so we coast down the road, onto
the highway, as the moon slides up
and darkness slides down, the car
a warm capsule, a silver bullet in the
heart of age. We drive by
the spots but don’t stop, hours
pass without minutes, and a song
on the radio, hit of the moment,
sings of fading and flying,
strangeness and knowing,
and for once, all together,
everyone falls silent
and listens.

Gregory Miller