First Kiss in a Movie Theater Parking Lot
It seemed like he was never
going to do it
so I rushed my blood up
and threw my arms around him
I don’t remember where exactly
because it was
a black-night-and-sodium-light blur
just then, and I pushed my mouth
to his, and he did kiss back
I’m sure I remember that right
he did
but then shrunk down
mumbled wow
and never
did it again
so I didn’t either
That was the part where sad
string music would play
if it was a serious kind of movie
or angsty pop if it was
John Hughes or Cameron Crow
directing him to shuffle to his car
motion for me to get in
drive me home in dark quiet
while the audience glanced
at each other in pity,
Breathless
Watching again at forty-five—not a nineteen-
year-old envisioning drifting from canvas to
convertible to mattress, when all the shades
of grey lurched forward, distinguishing themselves
in cigarette smoke and bedsheet folds—now I wonder
just what the streets of Paris smelled like through
Belmondo’s nose, craving the silk drapery of discovery,
surprise of art from another mind, like finding silvery
tinsel static-stuck inside sweater sleeve
unworn since last Christmas. The young have luxury
of shock, each channel-flip, page-turn or link-click
switches lightbulbs in shadowed insides. Everything is
new, like sips of gin brushfire or sweet cordial.
What could I sip now that my tongue won’t
already recognize? Somebody please
make me something to make me gasp.
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