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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