Eighteen Those weekend nights, I’d leave the house to drink and drive: Volkswagen Beetle, first-love girl- friend (call her Fancy: that’s one way I think of her), her red hair, singing voice, the twirl of her soft tongue with mine, her rabbit heart- beat, touches quick and delicate. Twined on the riverbank with her, our beers half-gone, the army blanket underneath us part hair shirt, part featherbed. The river smelled of fish, the frogs and crickets screamed. Her moon- lit breasts felt soft as any hand that held or fed me. Night, of course, must fade to noon: we didn’t last. The leaves changed colors, fell. A well-worn tale, but one I must retell.
Thomas Zimmerman (he/him/his) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review https://thebigwindowsreview.com/ at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in The Beatnik Cowboy, M58, and the anthology Extreme Sonnets. Tom’s website: https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/