Saving My Sharona

Summer smiles,
highway miles.

Two rash and reckless
twenty-somethings
ensconced in a white
’76 Mustang,
with a thin red racing stripe
to match its plaid cloth interior.

Manual transmission,
chrome wheels
and Glory Be to God:
an 8-track player,
the center console
laden with The Hollies,
Hall & Oats,
Golden Earring,
Jethro Tull
and The Knack.

Launch it!

Our Girl Power
pit stop
battle cry,
a necessary prelude to Rolos, Pringles,
and Diet Cokes,
travel tackle for the ages.

With state lines yet to cross,
we savored every kick-ass song —
in its entirety.
Once that ignition key stoked the carburetor,
and my wing woman
pushed the tape back into the slot,
we watched those white lines melt away
in our side-view mirrors,
destinations unknown.

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