You checked me out at the department store in a red vest, Santa hat, smacking Big Red gum.
You gave me a wink and a smile that warmed me to the core, melting my ice like the sun.
Two nervous souls we were driving in your tiny red car, singing to The Spice Girls on the radio,
Fingertips inching closer, stealing kisses at every stop sign, I could taste your Big Red gum.
Empty fields on gravel roads and city parks hidden from view of the world, we kissed, explored
Each other until interrupted by the police officer, I denied my gayness while chewing your gum.
With fistfuls of quarters, we hid our unspeakable teenage lust in the car wash, touching on red,
Soapsuds, bare skin, stopping on the green, flashing lights, wanting to taste more than your gum.
House unsupervised, stripped inhibitions in the aquarium light, I worshiped your perfect form,
Your skin on my skin, friction, smoke, melting heat, creating energy, light brighter than the sun.
But out of nowhere, you called it quits, you said it must be done so I filled my tank
With gasoline and I threw out your pack of Big Red gum, driving off into the setting sun.
Charles K. Carter (he/him) is a queer poet and educator from Iowa who enjoys live music, yoga, hiking, and film. He has an MA in creative writing with a concentration on poetry from Southern New Hampshire University and is completing an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. His works have been published or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic and Dodging the Rain