Christine Van Winkle

Every couple has a remember the time we drove all night,
         what makes ours
Ours a flight, escape from a snarling giantess
Up a luminous thoroughfare and down,
Left through a caustic warren we coveted in our naïveté,
Wherein those scalloped bodies belonged just right.
Left along the pike of an industry’s shoddy footing,
This was my hometown. To shadier slots we fled
Ostensibly to rest, inside to plead Is this right for me?
See that we’ve driven ourselves away from one serrated cretin
To another. In the parking lot we bartered,
In middle age we bet. That drive, all night,
That business of haven and regret, once metaphor,
Now banks, ruptured, twice, trained to forget,
         what makes us?
Will you let me learn to smear that rising sun
That sheared us long ago, in pastels on your palm?

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