Top Down

My bare head is so cold
that it aches, almost as if the chill
has frozen my skull
leaving brain to rattle around
like two dice in a cup.

“Top down,” I had said
and we sped
through the city, night skies flying above us,
the moon almost new,
your smile filling the car with heat.

I’m still new at this,
even all these years later;
I’m thrown back in time
to youthful indiscretion,
the midnight hour spent along the river bank,
cars passing, their headlights keeping lips
from melting with the heat.

“Top down,” I had said
and wished somehow to return to the river bank
so that our lips would warm my skin
like a hot roll at the table,
dice clicking to wild cheers and laughter.



First published in Skipping Stones, September 2003.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.