Two A.M. Joe, I,
indian-style on Parmer Lane
asphalt. Bag of Doritos.
Slurpee. Austin skyline,
invisible shadows undone
by the read rid red
blink. Stoplights
staring down, condemning
coarse jokes, laughing
at the haunt of silence.

Two-thirty. Joe's red
Porsche painted dark with night.
A head, my head,
blurred in the wind.
85 mph down Metric,
damning stoplights, yelling
the sidewalk people nobody sees, yelling
the harmony of bass-riddled "smells like teen spirit,"
yelling the shadows of rage.

Three A.M. Echoes.
Conversations. MTV. Freedom.
Jumping the fence. Joining
them, spa soothing,
college girls, don't
guess we're lying about age.
Security guard. Who lives
here? I do. Prove it.
Heart-heavy knock on
a silent door. Tired woman.
Crack up before we can do it.
Run.

Three-thirty. Ancient
Hispanic lady waiting, waiting
not amused. We are
amused. Debating
steak and eggs versus hotcakes.
Feeling the invisible sun
evaporate our skin.
Watching the invisible summer
evaporate their skin.
Eating. Plotting to
escape without pay. Plotting
what comes next.
Got to do something next.
Running out the door
into Austin night.
Our night.