Prom Night

I remember scorching in the midday sun,

my teenaged body slathered in Johnson’s baby oil. 

I was only fifteen, barely needing to shave my legs.

 My mother came outside to remind me

I always get burned.

“We’ve got tonight…”

                               

We posed for smiling pictures

in baby blue taffeta and tux,

nervously pinning corsages and boutonnières,

playing grownup at more than dinner and dancing.

           “…Who needs tomorrow?”

            

We drove around in your 67 Ford Galaxie

hot rod with slippery red seats.

The engine surged whenever

 you skipped from 1^st to 3^rd.

(Remember teaching me to drive a stick?)

We spent hours in your garage while you

restored the engine, exhaust, clutch and body.

That car was your baby.           

But so was I.                                 

           “Let’s make it last…” 

 

My night ended in the bottom

of a Boone’s Farm strawberry bottle,

more Kool Aid than anything else,

yet my head spun like a merry go round

until I slid down a wall,  laughing,

caught by your strong, wide hands.

                           “Let’s find a way…”