a little tenderness

above us, night opened 

like a well hungry 

for any tossed coin 

not made to touch 

water: at fifteen 

we were in free fall, infinite 

before time had touched 

those we’d survive summer 

afternoons & afterschool 

classrooms alongside. It was late 

on a Saturday & we were armed 

to the teeth with alibis. Meaning: 

free, for now. Before Slim sing-

songed the letters to his moniker,

the bass of “Peaches & Cream” pulsed

my ribcage like a second heart

as we rolled up four deep, intercepted

by Jay Silver’s grandma—five foot 

negative some odd change, rotating

a massive blunt between

her teeth like a dial on a long-

saved bank safe. Sophomore year & 

I was looking for any excuse

to crack open. Her gold-capped 

lower left cuspid cracked a forty 

of OE800 handed with a sly 

smirk that had somehow

survived her strict adolescence,

refugee camps in southern

Thailand, & the Khmer Rouge. 

I was peach fuzz swagger, a frown 

I confused for a mean mug. Some 

kind—any kind—of armor. Marley 

Wilson sipped a wine cooler with 

two seniors & Jay’s sister eyed me 

from across the yard. I had finally 

arrived. Roadmap muddled but 

the goals tonight were certain—

             none of which included the abrupt 

             scattering, cops spilling in from 

             every corner like a sudden swell 

             of seawater inhaling our busted, 

             overcrowded dinghy. The memory 

             is now mostly strobe-light blur, blue

             & red popping floaters across 

             the frame. I’d jumped three 

             chain-link fences & barely broken 

             a sweat while a single clumsy 

             cop fumbled his way over 

             the first—& you know what?

             It just made me want to slow

             down: high-step it, steal one more 

             look back before I turned 

             onto Smith Street, maybe 

             talk a little shit too loud to later 

             sweeten the story. J.B. had an earlier 

             birthday than any of us, just gotten 

             his license & two hours earlier guilted 

             his mom into lending him the car. 

             He was idling in the parking lot of 

             the 7-Eleven off Mount Pleasant, 

             trunk popped, the three of us nearly 

             colliding as we dove in like we did into 

             everything: head-first, clenched

             eyes. Then, J.B. lowered that trunk 

             like a needle on some granddad’s 

             cherished vinyl. Eyes bloodshot, he pulled 

             out of the lot like a pull off something 

             expensive & forbidden, his slightly 

             slurred speech now smoothed into 

             the silk drawl of a steering wheel 

             scored by Motown as he carefully 

             accelerated to an exact twenty-five, 

             rolling both windows all the way 

             down like a well-dressed ghost 

             accessorized by a pair of middle 

             fingers to every dropped-jaw 

             bystander. I don’t remember the song. 

             But I want to say it was Otis singing “Try

             a Little Tenderness,” full-throated, 

             ’67 live version, the chorus arriving 

             as the cop asthma-huffed into J.B.’s sight-

             line, cop’s eyes scanning for something, 

             anything to catch. We wheezed & gasped

             smuggled laughter, stowaways

             to an immortal youth we clutched 

             like a parachute we expected 

             would open every time 

             before hitting 

             the ground.