Skyway

On feet not built for back seats,
Courtney, Andrew, Emily and I
scrambled across a rain-swept
Chicago Loop parking lot
looking for Andrew’s car.

We all have our road trip vices.
Cherry Chapstick in the front seat,
fancy chocolate in the back. Courtney
said it smelled like teenage makeouts.

Mine, I said, all smelled like Chanel,
coffee, and washed out wool sweaters -
and took place in cars much bigger.

Andrew said he lost his virginity
in my seat. Emily spoke in American
Sign Language, and Andrew laughed.

And somewhere, near the Skyway,
lights hanging in the air, I snapped
one flashless picture of the four of us,
our faces melting like cherry Chapstick
left too long in the sun.