The Catch

The paper is thin as a moth's wing.

The date says July, the year I thought

I could live on nothing but loud bass

and the smell of her laundry soap.

For a second, the heat of the crowd

is back in my throat.

Then I remember the asphalt

shining under the mercury lamps.

The way she looked at the hood of the car

while the argument tasted like copper.

A lukewarm soda in the cup holder

with one gray, shrinking cube of ice

bobbing in the flat sugar.