Ziggy

We’re slumped on the front seat of a
low-slung Pontiac, cherry paint job.

 

Cheryl pokes the ashtray for butts,
finds the key. “Wanna go for a spin?”

 

“If we can be back by sixth period—
I did my homework.”

 

I have the wheel in one hand, a Marlboro
in the other. We jerk down Ventura Boulevard
in second gear, and I’m yelling above Janis Joplin,
“Wait’ll Mickey finds out we stole his car!”

 

Cheryl drums the dashboard laughing
because I don’t have a learner’s permit.

 

GRAND THEFT AUTO

 

That’s what we tell the old guy we pick up
hitchhiking in front of Woolworth’s.
He looks pale and asks us to pull over.

 

We couldn’t stop now
even if we tried.