Tiptoes

January 12, 2011
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I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
It would just be about the tiptoes down creaking stairs, the quiet screen door closing
The flashing streetlights overhead passing through a wide-open sunroof
The swaying evergreen tree air freshener, the condensating Arizona tea in the cup holder
The box of Arby’s curly fries we crunched between our teeth.
Each dashed white line racing by on the open street
The carefree summer wind blowing on our faces,
No destination in mind
Your loud off key singing, the radio blasting
The stillness felt in the dark summer night
The rush of your speeding car as your foot pressed hard on the gas.
Just the way you throw your head back against the seat as we laugh through the night





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