The stop lights are cherries in a sizzling Coke, ice fog,
and my lips on the glass. My hand on your thigh, your
eyes on the lights, a splash of cheap music on the radio.

On the inside, our formula hasn’t changed. The same
chemicals pulse to carbonate the night. We’re a 20yr
elixir, open bottle spilling onto this stretch of road

between ocean and home. And what a short sip we
are to the empty green field that’s seen so much go by.
At another time, belt buckles, boots and phones would

die in a field like that. Now we can only drink each
other slowly. Cherries click back to the green eyes
of commerce, toss us down this bar of barren road.