Baby's Beside Me in a Fuchsia-Electric Bikini
Road-addict white tail deer,
coffee-jangled tornado-chase junkies
bullshitting each other at a cafe.
Gaunt Route 270 is full-tilt wail.
I catch a whiff of your strawberry-scented skin.
We're on a washboarded dusty road
close to where Gray, Oklahoma, is... or used to be.
The storm sky has cleared to aluminum-blue
and John Conlee's on the radio,
I'm on the Back Side of Thirty.
We run out of Oklahoma panhandle to crazy-drive,
swerve into a Texas motel parking lot
full of crimp-faced sonsabitches,
overstated gambler hats,
frock coats from mail order.
One of them's selling framed
sepia pictures of 1930's tarpaper shacks.
Outside our motel window,
a trailored Angus bull shifts weight,
groans like a mentally crippled
3rd grade teacher out of chewing gum.
At least, baby, you're beside me, sweaty,
coyote-muscled, the bikini coming off,
asking, You care to share... a shower.