Adios Junior Year and Twenty Years

By Andrew Ramirez

*

hurry twenty years,

are you all packed and ready

for vegas, baby?

junior year’s riding

shotgun, barefoot, barely there

with a cowboy hat

on his head like a

bad joke, and he can’t be blamed—

he’s dehydrated.

there’s that warm case of

caguama swinging whip-quick

in my direction.

junior year gulping

it all down like cold water.

two decades going smash

into the windshield

like determined bugs. I think

we have enough gas

to reach sin city,

and if not—well—who’s buying?

my wallet lays dead

in los angeles.

plus, the birthday boy shouldn’t

pay for shit on his

big shiny blackout.

so cough it up twenty years

worth of fun and sun

sitting quietly

in the backseat reaching your

fingers for vegas.

pay up junior year

of silliness and never

ever growing up.

I see you dozing

in the undergraduate

sun, riding shotgun,

and i’ve already

said I’m not paying a penny.

so make with it—cash.

you’re a good friend but

twenty years you won’t be here

much longer, my dear

friend. because midnight

is coming on like a sneeze.

and if you haven’t

heard, i’m sorry to

say: but i’m feeding every

bit of both of you

to the vegas dogs.

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