by Maria DiLorenzo
In front of the pet store he taught me how
to two step. We drove to Lamours, mosh pit
after mosh pit—I dance without him now.
He’d say “least I checked out high on the good shit.”
Born a few hours apart on the same day
made us birthday twins, for that I’ll have to save
animals he didn’t get to rescue, strays.
But what about when my car dies, oil laves
the street? Avenues he pushed it across.
He said “fuck cars, this is why I skateboard.”
Tonight car stalled, sat there in neutral, forced
to call a tow truck—now, I’m one man short.
His mass card on the sun visor above my head,
my car blocking traffic, hating that he’s dead.