Cheryl

Don slams the brakes,
too late.

 

We stall
on a ledge, a
steel teeter-totter.

 

Pedal to the metal;
back tires spit dirt.

 

We start walking,
his arm on my shoulder,
street lights winking below.

 

My heart slows, wishing he’d say
he loves me before we find a pay phone
and call a tow truck.

 

I’m dying to say it back.