KEYS
by Dave Malone
She and I can’t drive yet
but at thirteen we vow to steal cars.
Spring dies in summer’s wrist.
Our block glows an ill, dirty orange.
She skateboards in my driveway
with surfer shoes and black hair chopped.
I bounce a basketball
into our nonexistent conversation.
Since I don’t have stolen Jag keys,
she curses at the limp leather I now cradle
as if not only I but the entire world breeched
a life of possibility.
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