Sitting in my car gloving up
before mask on to buy groceries
I’m in Mindy West’s old
Ford Fiesta – 1986 we’re parked
in gravel between cornfields
her back seat jammed with wet
swim practice towels
as we navigate her stick shift
for a hustle in the front buckets
Gloving up with the news on
is Bon Jovi out of a boom box
because her car has no stereo
and every time feels like that first
Gloves snug as jeans
opening the nitrile cuff and inserting
my fingers bunched as bananas
flexing in ecstasy at the bind
carefully rough and excited
and scared and embarrassed
adding a layer of alone
is nothing like in the movies
her eager smile and that damp
hair in that moonlight
while at Kroger beneath the stare
of 360-degree surveillance lot cams
projected death tolls I cannot turn off
not feeling wild – wild in the streets
She guiding like a nurse
as I operate on a school night
with a playful snap of left glove
skin and breath weaponized
my bare fingers her anticipation
knees banging spasmodic against wheel wells
All survival acts should taste like this
I step out quiet in the populated void
onto the angled painted parking of a city
neither desperate nor essential
but still here and makeshift masked
bandana close as her mouth
wiping down the cart like a murderer
when once we were all over each other’s hands
rolling bravely through the automatic
sliding doors into a touchable doom
where not a soul can see me smile
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