The Roadster

The chrome engine rose
like a molten pyramid
out of a custom blue lagoon.

The top was down
and she sat beside me at a traffic light
preening.

Her silver hoop earrings gave her status.
I gave her a bucket seat
on a highway stage.

She took the lead part without prodding
nodding to the gawkers in the rusted heap
smoking and growling next to us.

She wore a short brim paper fedora
natural tone
with a broad black band
as wide as the Nile
tucked tight around the base.

Like a matinee idol on a red carpet,
she blew kisses to her fans
who pulled up,
horses wheezing and coughing.

I gave the roadster a little drink
shoving high octane bourbon down its gullet
and making the eight angry pistons jump and dance.

She liked that.  
Oh yea.
She liked that!

So I repeated the bar scene by
jamming another round of spirits down
my stallion’s throat pumping the pedal
with a lover’s vigor.

She pecked at my cheek
leaving red tire marks steaming.

The light turned green.

I wrapped a hot arm around her shoulder
and put her hand on the walnut shifter.

The white wall Hoosiers
torched the asphalt spitting up gravel
with an attitude
while she torched my soul in
the Roadster.

David R. Denny  (for Alice)

Roadster2

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