by Joey Colby Bernert
Streetlamps humming on Quarton Road.
Four of us in the Passport,
The Game bouncing from the speakers,
smoke thick as the frost on the glass.
In my ear buds,
Riyu Kosaka,
I watch the stutters of a cheap Zippo,
finally catching flame,
the joint sparking like a fuse.
Cloth seats sticky with old soda,
sweet rot pressed into the fabric,
holding us closer than we want.
Cologne sharp in the smoke,
brick weed burning slow.
Laughter fills the car,
not at a joke,
just at the thickness of the night,
at how far gone we already are.
Pressed in my lips,
a Marlboro Mild,
the joint skips me.
Headlights crawling past,
their beams skating over field and gravel,
baseball diamonds
I used to play on.
We lean back deeper,
not thinking past the song,
or the smoke,
or the seats holding us fast.
Dumb fucking teenagers,
and for that hour,
It was enough.
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