Tonight at the Starlighter Drive-In, next
To Red’s Steak House, next to the blinking radio tower,
We take our small daughter. Last weekend before school,
Stay out late, eat Milk Duds, popcorn. Summer
Is practically gone. It went fast. It went slowly.
The Opera down the highway is playing La Bohème.
I missed it. Lightning, on-and-off rain, the sunset
Frozen and peculiar. My hand on your chin. The girl
Sits between us, doses off. Used to be your hands
Were the voices of tenors.
“Who Wrote the Book of Love” on the radio. Perfect
For a night like this. Cars full of families, teenagers
Dance next to a camper between features.
Three times the preview sticks and celluloid burns.
We love an artificial moment, laugh knowingly.
“Española,” we say. We coddle each other. Next movie
Our child sprawls asleep, pillows from home under
A meteor shower. We are natural, protect the volume
Of love. Movie lines in our mouths. Fall into a life,
A set, into a family. Write the book in a green pickup.
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