The Girl In the Car
It is the girl in the car, on warm leatherette,
Who, in the Summer slipstream, teased the wheel
And gunned her engine heart;
She graced the passing furnace air, and angel sweat
Tracked slowly down her singing spine, for her to feel
Ignition spark and start.
And in her moistened loins the truth it rang
A clear and sensual focus, some chaste alarm
Forewarning her affirming stance;
She knew the throttle deviance, and words that hang
In glibness in a one track mind, such charm
Insinuate it's way into her pants.
She scanned the roads ahead, acknowledged fork,
Twin signs with arrows, nervous, highly strung,
And take a wilder stab at chance;
Procure the empty fast lane or get out and walk,
Race to cold and shallow sex and silver tongue,
Or ramble down the highways of romance.
The tumbling of the dice, herself to know,
When, the vulture Summer flying through,
Chilled in the Mustang embrace;
And remaining in the car, yet took it slow,
And holding on, and to herself be true,
And smiled within the smile upon her face.
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