the
upholstery might give
away my
secrets --
who I kissed
and who I told.
rearview mirror
saw a mouth
on my neck, a
mouth on my ear,
my hand
inching up a thigh,
saw us
crying, saw us yelling
as some
scenery rushed by,
someone leaping
out
and slamming
the door
on a dead
end street
as I suck in
a deep breath
of recycled
air then
wipe down
the windshield
and U-turn for
the road home.
a cigarette
dropped into
emergency-break
crack
and I don’t
smoke.
cheerios and
paper dragons
smashed
together in the back seat
and I don’t
have kids.
short white
hairs on every ass
as it rises
through the doorway
and the dog
is dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment