Summer Naugahyde
I fancy the suicide seat, splendid hazard,
without seat belts. Out of the immensity,
he shifts up, from drive to dance, fast.
Tires squeal. This guy has street smarts
Lee Van Cleef would envy. I've been told
he’s one slim customer, fag intense
in his lips, like holding a gun,
only more powerful.
I contemplate a roulette ride
across the eternal front seat,
tuck the professional virgin
in the glove box. Ash falls to his knees,
pending miracles, as the keynote gallops
a wheel of fire. Second glance speaks,
"Only the weak need both belt and suspenders."
Jesus, he can’t even trust his own pants.
Sometimes I pray for love
and laugh when I get it.
Tess Kincaid
Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
2 comments:
Thanks, Glenn. Always a pleasure. (by the way, it's "Kincaid"...hehe)
One of these days I will get the
name correct without a prompt.
Boy, is my face red.
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