Above the falsetto chirps of toads or frogs or
whatever finny-footed Frankie Vallis pitched woo
to their polliwoggy groupies, we laid there
in the back of my brother’s F-150
seeing nothing but stars and hearing naught
but our breaths twined in Summer love.
August heat draped over us like
that old Army blanket we made
cumbersome love beneath, while
Warren Beatty’s tinny words washed
over us from curly-corded drive-in speakers.
I recall we watched Bonnie and Clyde and
we thought ourselves real cinema bandits
on the way home, tossing $3.87 in coins
to the pimply kid in the drive-through
and hauling ass out of there while he tried
counting them up to pay our $5.59 bill.
“We rob burger joints,” you laughed
like my own Faye Dunaway, stealing
my heart for the fourth time our Junior year.
But looking back from this lonely porch
on this August evening, recalling all our
other days and nights now done,