Michael H

I bought you a cherry cola when we stopped for gas outside the city borders,
you looked bored, my shades atop your head,
my bubble gum lost in your jaws,
until, of course, you saw the Adonis behind the counter, saving for college, blushing a little, but flashing a smile,
as you waved like Queen Cleopatra.

Your eyeliner was messy,
because you’d slept in it,
but you had drawn a fresh heart on your left cheek,
convinced that it’s presence,
in red felt tip,
would attract a great love into your lonesome life,
along with the star that lived on the right side of your face,
that we had decided would bring you fame (or an asteroid that could be named after you, which is basically the same thing for two kids).

You asked me the hot checkout guy’s name,
pouting for at least an hour when I said I didn’t know,
barely talking,
but boldly singing to the radio all the way home.
Bay City boy,
with a smile and some sarcasm for everyone you meet,
lay down on the grass with me,
when the sun is high,
and the shadow of Independence Bridge feels even taller.
Just stay with me,
and look bored,
so bored and so beautiful.