henry and noel

as you slept in the front
seat
of your 1970 chevy nova,
parked on the side of an ocean
road,
henry and noel
made love
in the back
under the coarse hair
of an army
blanket.
you pretended not hear,
not to listen
to the grunts
and groans, the unsexy
grinding
of bodies
against the vinyl seats.
feet pressing
against the back
of where you sat.
the wind rose from the ocean
blew in,
the salt, the sand. the sun
partly covered
by clouds, was a bland
yellow melt,
struggling to be the sun.
the car
needed gas
to get home,
you were hungry.
soon they'd finish
and things would be different.
in a year
noel would die with a needle
in her arm. henry
would be seen pushing
a shopping cart
up the road
with things he had stolen,
drinking cough syrup.