Drive-in

Eric Bryson and I wind through potholes on Moon-
glo road to see the show at 9. A swath
of cars roll into drive-thru. I hide Heinz glob
fresh from McD’s. Eric still peeks. He drops
napkins handing them to me. Reached speaker hangs
in window. Slow, turning knob to hear

the dancing snacks and previews. “You hear
that,” he asks? Lifts metal handle, “moon-
pies half-price tonight. Keep you from chewing hang-
nails.” Yank fingers from teeth. Eric joins swath
lining-up to buy popcorn. Reaches and drops
wallet in rocks. I sit on hood washing globs

of ketchup away with spit. Mascara globs
vision. Focus on screen. Giggle. He hears,
and winks at me smiling a pink drop
of tongue between smoked teeth. Dark with new moon,
Eric comes back, pop and corn in hand. Butt swaths
cross plush-zebra seat. Head bumps feathers hanging

over me. “The Man They Could Not Hang”
vintage reel flickers. Buttery glob
licks from fingertips. Tossed napkins join swath
rolling in backseat. Chevy rocks. Hearing
footsteps behind trunk, “I don’t like moon-
pies,” we pretend fight. Rent-a-cop drops

flashlight. Stumbles on gravel. Eyes drop
into Chevy. Through cracked window he hangs
fingertips; pinches face, “no fuckin’ at Moon-
glo drive-in!” “No sir,” Eric said. Wipes globs
of sweat from forehead. “Well then, can you hear
the show back there?” “More space.” Cop kicks swath

into rocks. Walks away leaving handprint swath
across glass. More petting breasts. Un-latch pants. Drops
hand, splits lips. “You’re not a virgin,” whispers. I hear.
Hard-pressed against zipper, Eric’s breath hangs
on my lips. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. Glob
seeps through jeans I won't see again. Moonless

sky plane swath crossed. Eyes dropped
lids. I heard rockets. Dry spit globs
cornered lips hanged from new moon.