First the inflated Sinclair gas-station dinosaur
stuffed comfortably into the back seat
of your Plymouth convertible.
Then the routine Ft. Pierce patrol car
idled up beside your
with their canary specks
flickering off the Atlantic.
What’d you hope to gain
by absconding with that dinosaur?
Or perhaps it wasn’t the dinosaur after all,
so much as your heavy kisses
two months later
clouding my ’57 Chevy’s back windows
like steam billowing from large pots
of boiling potatoes.