“If it’s been ten times it’s been forty-five
I’ve checked the man out in the car behind
mine, teeth bared, laughing in my rearview”
He’s not gripping the wheel, he’s only flailing
arms like a blow-up doll in the wind.
The same penciled-in strap-on face, he’s a rubber
look alike to my passenger.
Darlene is her name, all filled up ready
to go. I follow her suggestions:
wrong way down the one way, pull the brakes,
run this, skid into that, close the doors
tight while she melts, she makes a steady wheeze
the same sound after the air bags
pop. By evening’s pallor she is leaky:
her legs go first sucked dry by the sun.
She is deflation next to me.
But now, with the white toothed
laughter, his smile, his arms all
play for mirrors, all smoke.
He is the fake, the afternoon
soap opera and my blow-up
holding my hand, slowly easing out,
letting go.
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