When the storm hit we were halfway
to oldies night at the corner bar.
Using a logic that remains distant, we leapt
across boiling puddles to spare the clothes
that would get wet anyway.
We had Buddy Holly, broken glass, and near death
run ins with cab drivers, reminding us our time is limited.
You kept saying you’d die at twenty-eight. Ask anyone.
I begged you: “don’t.”
I kept a champagne bottle to myself,
used a credit card minimum as an excuse
to buy you a shot of Maker’s.
You drank it with too much enthusiasm,
and touched my hand as if
you knew where I have been.
When I finally got you home the night
finally started; there were sore legs in
the morning and enough concentration
between the two of us to leave the rest
of the world lonely and untraveled.
I drove you back to where you stayed
in the morning. I felt out of sorts for days.