The crowd pours into whatever-it-is.
I spot my date,
one of many high school friendlies.  

Her face is all made up, too much to touch.  

She hooks her arm in mine.
We join the parade.
She tells me how this changes things.  

Now there’s not any game that we can’t play.  

As we cross the parking lot to whatever-it-is
I spot the passing shadow of my mechanic.
I recall I left my car in the shop to be fixed.  

I pat the bottle of medicine in my suit pocket.

Excuse me, I tell the corsage on my arm.
I’ll only be a moment.
I need to briefly attend to my nervous breakdown.  

(I think my car needs a bottle of yellow medicine).  

I can’t remember my mechanic’s name –
Terry? Arn? Irv? Velbur?
If I don’t remember his name, he might not see me.   

(I know the old one gave me the yellow medicine).  

The young one with a tight black beard
stops me with his hand on my chest:
I fear your car is burning oil – let’s check.  

We arrive, The old one’s already behind the wheel.  

The young one drops to his knees and sings
how his sick mother slowly died and now
his strength is gone, and he has no reason to live.    

Motion stops, my senses reverse into me.  

The conclusion is parked. They’ve left the keys:
Mechanics are very invested in fixing my car.
It’s the only reason I’ve been able to drive this far.