for Chris Bell

A sidearm lob would splat the oozy crack
we craved, creeping moonlight in second gear,
its haze so faint our runny yolks appeared
to glaze like giant honeyed snails down trunks
of sleeping neighbors’ cars. A lob and not
a heave, which early on we learned could thud
so loud a porchlight once behind us blazed
to life and made us floor the night. We’d hit
three stores to buy a dozen each and say
our weary mothers sent us out, too wrecked
from nursing shifts to plan Sunday breakfast.
The lie was mine. In truth I loved it more
than soaring orbs at cars, how one clerk blessed
my teenage heart while creasing my receipt.