10 p.m. on a "schoolnight," on the back of a motorcycle, puttering along the pavement, past the neighbors sitting outside their houses or on the street, with a friend riding your draft, close enough you could grab the dirty wheel.
They are holding onto the back motorcycle rack to hum along with you at your pace and everytime we hit a significant pot hole or rock, a "woah," and a snicker.
A tiny tiny breeze after a day of baking, a few stars above.
I'm not holding on and I don't know where we're going, except on some dirt streets I haven't been on or don't recognize in the night.
Sometimes I turn to slap him a high five or yell someting in the driver's ear.
I am 15 again and feel just like when Kelli and I would run out to her field with a megaphone and scream to the guy I liked on his motorcycle, and when we would spend hours laying in her front yard, the cool grass on our backs, staring up to the sky and reciting fake Shakespeare.