Trampa

Alana whips us 

around the night

in her nineties jalopy.

On the rearview,

a rosary sways.

Our clique’s the kind 

that skips prom: 

Spencer would’ve 

had to wear a dress

and his deadname.

We end up cramping 

my bed, an iceberg

too inconsequential,

to ship the wreck.

Earlier, as we passed

the private airstrip,

a woman and her shih tzu

descended from a Cessna.

She was there, and we 

were zip, nada, zilch.

Now, Alana’s a-lot-older

boyfriend messages,

wanting to see 

what she’s wearing. 

Loaded question, given 

her mystery bruise. 

I crook our herd 

to my roof, where there’s

at least a little air. 

Neon miles of strip clubs 

and car dealerships 

wire Alamo Drive. 

Tampa, trafficking

capital. Of firebolt, too—

look at our charred 

hearts. Here, 

the same place twice, 

it’ll strike.