The moon propped up with some invisible crutch -
a dim bulb sputters light flecks down
to the 16-year-old boy who,
not quite understanding the concept of his own car,
swerves between lines and lanes -
pleasuring at his own control of things.
Parking on the verge of urgency -
fumbling and feeling (for the first time) the warm
heaviness of her breast
and he is amazed
and addicted.
"It's sore," she whispers quick - embarrassment
squirting through her like growth elixirs.
The hand is placed elsewhere for awhile.
The railroad outside the little car storms
with boxcars bumping along
clumsily like the boy and his barely contained fluids,
his newly discovered touch, and it wouldn't go
any farther than that.
