We Each Drove a Car with a Paper License Plate

to our first date

you said you bought a new car

out of mid-life crisis

I looked at you, giggling

before Christmas

my permanent license arrived

I went to the nearby Walmart

for a screwdriver

the Starbucks

still there

I saw the two of us

still talking

the cast iron table

more timeless

than our cars—

each with a paper license plate

as if babies

waiting to grow out of

their transient

baby caps

now my car has grown to an adult

having a metal plate, a permanent

combination of numbers and letters

what’s your combination?

why do I even care?

maybe my car could spot yours

in this wind-swept, gigantic parking lot

if they brushed past each other

perhaps it remembers

the short excursion

in its effervescent, balmy youth

adorned with

ephemeral paper license plate

might it even say “hi”

like a composed, oblivious adult

secretly

heart being shredded

like the paper license plate?