Parallax - Prose-Poem

I've been driving for decades. A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51', the model with the three-speed manual transmission - 8 cylinder. A deserted desert diner. The door creaks. I'm a doppelganger of myself. Tomatoes fry on a skillet. I throw my Panama, feed bread into a counter toaster. A woman appears, drying her hands. You've found me in my old age - how impolite of you, she says between disapproving lips. She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely. Is that your Buick? Before I can answer, she asks: Is that your hat on a rack at the back? Before I can answer, she asks: is this a crossroads movie? I think it's a date, Only this time you're the pitiful figure, she interjects, spooning tomatoes onto a plate. I remember how badly I treated her, making my excuses, leaving early in the evening. This is it! I exclaim. Our second chance. A withering look. In my story, you die young on the highway, in a ball of fire. The horn on the Buick honks. Someone came with me. I imagine his black charred hand on the big white steering wheel. Green tomatoes sizzle.