In the Hardee's parking lot, we eat
those storebought biscuits, imitations
of Grandma's cat-heads, and later we're still
there, after school lets out, throwing beer cans
in the dumpster.
Jimmy Klein hits a skater with a busted
bottle and revs his engine. We howl
like indians. When Deputy Randall taps
on Jimmy's window, hand on the bloody
kid's back, Jimmy says, 'Sorry.'
We're never as sorry as you make us.
We have the prettiest cheerleaders bent
over in passenger seats. Their hair
drapes what they do. And they offer.
Sometimes when it gets too late
and we call our older brothers to pick us
up, knowing like an almanac when they will
be willing, sometimes the football field
over on Briarview looks like a backlit crown
of thorns.
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