Clarissa Tan

How again, after years, there is awe.

From the right side mirror 87th street looks the same.

People read the classics. People finish cigarettes. 

People refuse to die. 

But the smell of gasoline is proof of a passage of time.

Or not drinking something from a can. Rules. 

Staying in place.

I think this is what they call maturing 

or maybe this is nostalgia. 

How our feet hold us. Once our knees. 

The strangers stopped under the street sign

remind you of watching the people walk by.

From the passenger seat window I know

we are going too

fast to notice. You don’t look at me. 

Still you chew confessions and taste like spearmint.

And on some Saturday evening, you likely won’t 

remember this, we have run out of conversation topics. 

A song comes on and everyone knows the words. 

The beer is warm and flat. Velvet scrunchies. 

Goosebumps. Chewed nails. White lies. Don’t bother remembering

any of it. We could not return to get more.