I didn’t care where the shooting stars fell

as I watched them travel the night sky,

jet packed, pre-historic  revolutionary travellers

falling to ground in chunks, bombarding the Earth,

causing small dimples to pock-mark the scared green land,

for all I cared about was the dimples in your cheeks

as they rose higher and turned sacred red

as you watched in girlish anticipation

for another to wish your life upon.

 

We lay atop the roof of your Volkswagan, your baby,

yellow crusted, old cans and bottles rattling