like pulling an emergency break in a tailspin,
sipping Diet Coke and chews ice
crunching like potato chips or tree bark
and you just sit there,
across the table,
watching her shed her leaves.
the band's grooving hard
and she follows suit,
up and down like a Minnesota thermometer
until she's ready to burst.
her boots click on concrete all the way to her car
and she plants a rosebush kiss on your cheek,
eventually seen from space.
you watch her drive away, back home,
and you whistle on your own drive back,
a canary in a coal mine,
carrying lovely tunes of drunken hellos and awkward goodbyes,
shuffled feet and downward smiles,
and how much more beautiful
the sound of her boots was
when she was walking toward you
than when she was walking from you
but the fix for that
is why God invented plans.