Good girls, she tells him,
are only bad girls who
don’t get caught.
So they have sex
in the backseat of his orange
pickup truck.
Good girls, she reminds him,
aren’t out past curfew:
take me home.
He nods and pushes
her hair out of her face,
breathing on her lipsneckshoulderjaw.
Good girls, she explains to him,
don’t date bad boys,
unless they’re bad girls
in disguise.
For a long time, he sits in her
driveway and stares at the stars,
wondering what she meant.
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