Something to Remember You By
Note: ‘Map of France’ is Australian slang for vomit.
Last night I dreamt about last night,
with a few differences: we were dancing,
but not at a bar, at a bake sale,
and one of the Young Republicans
played “Pictures of You” on a boom box,
and we laced our fingers together,
breathing in the angel food vapors.
We stepped outside to share a cigarette,
to trace hearts and our initials
on a dusty van. Then we went for drinks
but in the dream they were milkshakes,
the thickest, most never-ending shakes
that made my tongue stick to my teeth
when I wanted to tell you something.
The ride back was exactly the same,
when the moon came blaring through
the windshield, and you said I can’t quit
because they fired me, and kissed me,
missing my mouth. Someone honked
outside, and I woke up alone,
but you had left a map of France
at my bedside, so the first thing I saw
was the colored patches, the geography
of everything that happens.