Christopher Petterson

A scraping sound,
like someone writing his name
in big letters
in the gravel with a Wiffle bat.

It’s the sound of my shoes
skidding on the ground
as I’m dragged by my armpits
in short bursts
from the Buick into the woods.

It all makes me think of
the shadow of a waterfall,
a description of a church,
the absence of metaphor.

These are my last thoughts
is what I’m thinking,
my cardigan ruined,
the Buick almost out of view.

She had said she wanted to hitch-hike
across the country wearing
a pair of cut-offs and a taco hat.

She had cupped my neck with her hand
and whispered this into my ear.