Pididdle

In college, my best friend, Sarah, and I had a game we played in the car called Pididdle. It's not the best poem, but it reminds me of Sarah and those crazy Friday nights.

Out in the car, gas tank full

We ride ‘til sun-up or until the driver can’t keep her eyes open.

Passing motorists are confused at the sight of us �"

Spangly like drag queens even though we’re in jeans and holey hoodies.

Back and forth we go; over here-over there-around to the start again.

Most of the time it’s just the two of us;

Girls Night Out. And even when her brother comes along for the ride

The car has a girly vibe.

Janet Jackson is perfect music for cruising the Wal-Mart parking lot in search of the

Wire-rider that is Just Right.

Constant buzz of vocal exercises drown out the depression that follows me around like the smell of chlorine

After a trip to the community pool.

Her companionship allows me to let go the brooding poet inside I clutch so tightly during the week.

Even if it’s just one night of escape, I benefit from it for the next six days:

I wonder if she knows I’m still alive because of our frolicking until two in the morning, smacking the top of the car everytime we see a vehicle with one headlight.