Your idea of romance is
sitting on the plastic chair outside
the pizzaria, after it's closed,
our faces lit only by the neon "Free Delivery" sign.
Tilting the chairs back far, farther, too far,
until we collapse on the ground.
The background music provided,
free of charge,
by the radios of passing motor vehicles.
A snatch of "Sixteen Candles" speeding by,
and you picking up the chorus in your smooth baritone.
As long as it's me
sitting in broken chairs under flourescent lights,
belting golden oldies beside you,
It's my idea of romance too.