Back when cars exploded for no reason
and T couldn’t stand no jibber-jabbing

I blew my chance. Not in some cheap hyphen
ass dumb punchline but in you. Blitzkrieging

fingers in your curls plastered to the sides,
your skin dark opal. Dumb star-crossed children,

your dad said. We were clean as doom. Our prides
crimped to the max, feathered, teased with strychnine,

lye, waste. Your dad said that I was: bad news,
confused, going through a phase. Like a “Damn-

A-Team-Cars-Blowing-Up-If-Looked-At-Wrong”
phase. To pity fools, to taste cum and booze

on your breath. To recall your purse held: Wham!
cassettes, used condoms, our cashed baby bong.