Dashboard clock’s a freckle shy of an hour off, and she’s watching sirens in the rear view. What good are traffic stops getting further away? Her date brags he’s never been caught, yeah, as he puffs on a Marlboro, speeding through the boroughs.

(Her sense of
safety burrows like
seat belts in their
mechanisms, but small
wisdom was never
the second spin

Sure, he seems
a tad aloof but not
such a boy her mother would
disapprove of;

still a chance
we can
madly fall for
a lookout of our own,

debating which
stars are

He’ll go to Harvard and I’ll school at Yale. We’ll meet halfway every weekend and four years apart will pale next to the decades that trail them. We’ll buy our first home in the suburbs as whole economies wane, be engaged in Athens and married in Spain. He’ll spend days at the office and his nights by my side. Our sons will be born in autumn and have his auburn eyes.

We’ll grow old
and gray until the
faces of

our wedding day are
relics of another

He pulls up to the lookout,
smoke burned
to its filter,
turns off the headlights
but lets
the radio
guilt her into the real
meaning behind those songs.

Quick on the
draw, but long
enough to destroy

the dream.

4 thoughts on “Lookouts

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