Flash Back in Neon
by jeanne rene watson
Saturday, February 14, 2004
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Our fathers' winter path . . .
until ... somewhere in country
soldier gripping the wheel of a 1972 mustang
... damned basket
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He was the flash dance on the floor;
a wildcard from the bottom of the deck,
a maverick with a slow hand and fast tongue.
He was trouble,
tears and a time bomb,
in a body beautiful wrapped package.
He made me breathless,
and he sucked my sanity with the rhythm of his roll.
He’d empty me with his kiss, and I’d come up for air;
need to shake myself back into reality.
He panhandled my heart – for the bucks, not the change.
He was the impossibility that made control a homicide victim.
And he loved me too many days for the
morphine dream to keep dripping.
He leaned on me,
and bent me.
I crawled out just to run in any direction, high stepping;
Looking back at the charms he wore
like a neon sign blinking blue “Open-Cold Beer.”
I stayed for too many drinks after last call.
He is the memory, painted in the torn corners of my mind.
He is the rush in the night, that still rides his way into my dreams.
He is the smooth smile come across my lips . . . out of nowhere.
jeanne rene 11/03