As the van skirted past pot holes
In the highway,

Pitchfork lightning took a mad stab
at the heaving sky,

Unruly wind nymphs teasede the atmosphere in an anticipated barrage of foreplay against the sweating palms of
heavily-breathing rain drops
tickling the edge
of twilight’s summer veil.

(Potholes: Why aren’t Hoosier tax dollars spent better?)

On the passenger side—
She sits in the leather seat,
he makes small talk,
She circumvents his sincerity

Painful lessons of
“Never date a business associate”
loops like a spirograph wheel gone kaput

could it be 99 and ˝ percent true that
Only married men drive family vans?

Well, perhaps.

Still, 99 and ˝ won’t do for
A woman desperate for attention
When She ain’t got nothin’ more to lose
‘cept one more ounce of dignity,
why must She remunerate a favor
for a introvert who
couldn’t say “yes”?

By now the cloudbursts self destruct,
hostile downpour degrades itself to drizzle--

Moon goddess steals a look
beyond midnight billows.

On the driver side—
he flicks his half-baked cigarette,

She has no interest in kissing an ash tray--he is trying hard to practice his gentlemen skills. . .

(Enter the Man Show)

he parks his rented Lexus Between a volkswagon. . .and an over-rated Hummer
then steps outside right smack into a filmy puddle—

ruins ˝ pair of swap meet Bruno Magli’s. . .silk sock drenched to the ankle in the piss of acid rain,

partially creases his bottom lip, emitting superfluities

all beginning
with the sixth roman letter.

(“How wonderful! a trash-talkin’ materialist.”)

She feels naked once they enter the club, he ogles at shake dancers;

Feminine mystique vaporized to inadequacy in the presence of
ganstah girl booty shakers
proud to grind their lower regions
against the loins of total strangers.

he did not mind at all.

(unventilated air fills with
43 known carcinogens strokes delicate bronchi)

he lights another cigarette,

She makes her way thru the crowd,

he sandwiches himself
in freaky line dance

She makes her narrow escape
to the restroom,
otherwise known as Command Central
for weekend females in heat
who come out of 9 to 5 hiding.

hours drag on ‘til sunrise,
She has no way home,

he left with someone else,

She calls for a cab, enters the passenger side, and nestles in the backseat that smells of
sweat,
semen,
and unvacuumed ash trays

filled with
half baked cigarettes,

HIS brand. . . HIS cab company.

compromise her last one-half percent,

and She wonders who shined his shoes, declaring to Herself and the uncaring neighborhood, at full dawn. . .


“Why didn’t I see it coming?”

© 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed