Her hormones fled the coop on scalding tires.
Motel maids were her sisters, bars her occupation,
a place to work on the aerobics of hope.
He was a hazard in her side-view mirror,
a pileup that followed her home.
Hitched to a double-wide,
they took the long slide in a downhill race.
Both rode their desires in a raw rodeo.
He anointing her with his pity-me seed,
she dispensing self-hate in Dixie cups.
Authentic feelings waned,
emotions were stored in freezer bags,
kept on ice.
For months they clawed their way out
of a bad country song,
until the band broke up.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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