Or barbecue. Or pho—
hell, just burgers—
but let’s go. The last
child is out with friends—
forgotten the way the first
always wanted and will hold
against us the rest
of our days, but still—
let’s go, the night is
young—or something—
as they say, as we know
is something like liberation—
let’s go, put on that new
top or even—hell—those tatty
yoga pants and hoodie
but who cares—it’s late—
a Wednesday, and we’re out
of something—patience, ideas,
or time, anything—let’s
go for Doritos and Mountain
Dew in a gas station
parking lot and stink-eye
the brats—the ones who think
they’ll leave this place,
say they’ll never look back—
let’s go and grab a pint
of ice cream and say it’s late,
let’s go while the car still starts
and night’s not yet a reason
to stay in—look at the oncoming
headlights, some starburst
we traveled so far to witness—
let’s go—I promise—
we’ll be home in time.