The Plymouth's Glint

Cherry air freshener, thick and fake,

mixed with old cigarette smoke,

clung to the parking garage air.

Just a whiff,

and I was thirteen again,

sweat slick on my palms,

the cold plastic of the cassette case

digging into my skin.

Mrs. Peterson’s Plymouth Duster,

its chipped paint glinting mean

in the afternoon sun,

pulled up slow,

too slow.

We climbed in,

the three of us, giggling,

but my gut was a stone,

heavy and hot,

knowing this was wrong,

knowing we shouldn't be there,

the way the seats smelled

of stale ambition and fear.

And still,

some nights, I'm waiting

for that dull thrum

of the engine,

the door latch clicking shut.