written By
White Impala parked on a side street,
blue Chevy Malibu at a drive-in theater –
the images are as useless as
a box of condoms to a dead man.
But here they come
out of the sheer endlessness of the past,
meet up with me in this cage
I call the present.
Sure, I’m driving, but I’m not cruising.
I’m headed some place
and I miss the joy of going nowhere.
Maybe I’ll run into someone who was there.
But two are just as useless as one
when it comes to nostalgia.
I know that routine.
We laugh at the whole idea of bell-bottoms.
And chortle over splashing on cologne
in anticipation of that first big date.
And we can’t get enough of the image
in our heads of strumming a sister’s
tennis racket like it’s a guitar.
And then we part guffawing
like braying donkeys
until we get out of sight of each other.
That’s when we cry.
