Stealing Gas

Night, cars parked under the pines,
we’re sprinting the lanes with no sidewalks
along the swooshed curbs into the cul de sacs
with Big Wheels and barbeques in the yards,
looking for a left-out hose to sever a length
and siphon gas for our thirsty Chevelle.
Then by the grace of not getting caught
and the death-like sleep of the mothers and fathers,
we’ll drive onward aimlessly-ardently
past all the cul de sacs with all the girls
whose windows we throw stones at to wake
and tell come out come out we’re horny
and lonely and did we mention horny?
This teenage fuel puts us on our own small moon
but there’s always room for you, and you, and you.

*

Another one-sentence poem; varying between three and four beats per line. Still rather sadly revisiting the days of my youth, but I assume lads still do this sort of thing. This was about as rowdy as I ever got; and I was essentially a passenger. Still, essentially, a passenger...?