He couldn’t find his Mustang, but he knew
it was somewhere in that parking lot, and we stumbled
from row to row, two red-faced kids
who picked each other up in a honky-tonk crowd.
He couldn’t find his Mustang, but he found my hand
and pressed it to his thigh, saying,
“This here’s where my leg got tore on bob-wire;
this here’s where my brother cut me.”