I was driving by instinct.
You were transfixed by passing police sirens.
We both ate at too many diners to count.
And you thought of something hilarious
so you bit my shoulder like I was chocolate
while I was going one hundred and ten miles per hour
on empty highway overpasses.
I farted four and a half separate times in one hour.
You let your cellphone case whip out of the car window
and we both ate a total of thirty-two Twinkies.
In the end we only stopped to throw it all back up,
laughing through the sour bile,
before crawling back inside your ‘96 Honda Accord
to speed home,
the streets whizzing by in Technicolor flashes.