Eighteen

[imitation of Jan Beatty's poetry]

Eighteen
In my black Chuck Taylors,
I walk the crack
of the sidewalk; a miniature Route 66
tearing through cement slabs:
California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas.
Phoenix never gets below sixty-five,
even in January.
And oh,
how I crave that heat -

the just-opened-oven-door-warmth, sweat-running-down-the-small-of-your-back, scorching-waves-beating-off-concrete, teenage-backseat-heat.

We used to gather on the golf course at night, sliding fingers under belt buckles and zippers; drinking until enough people threw up/the sprinklers came on/the sun came up.
I think Tyler and Brittney are having sex in the bushes.
John just left with those two freshman girls - he said he had a video camera.

Wear your tightest jeans, it’s Friday night.