I drive the getaway car.
I stare into the sun
during another eclipse.

Do not streak through a college cinema
during another showing of Jailhouse Rock.

I drive her to the clinic.
I stare at a man on a subway
train in the wee hours.

Do not go to the lead singer’s hotel room—
not once but twice.

I drive him into her arms.
I stare at bare ash branches outside
as they kiss by bouncing flame candlelight.

Do not write another poem about the night
that changed my life.