At the intersection
between skating headlights,
Jolene
the directionally aware chevron queen
leans into me,
“I don’t care ‘bout yer spastic spasticity
or whatever you call it.
Yer dyskinetic cerebral palsy,
yer jerky movements from the future
yeah, they’ve arrived early.”
Southbound on Sunday Avenue,
well beyond the speed limit and still in a box.
As red taillights vibrate and dip outta sight,
Jolene says, “Johnny Satellite,
you blink like funeral confetti.
What will the moonlight think
of those unsteady eyes?”
Just then we see
a driver’s mouth wide
laughing like an axe wound.
Fireworks from the speeding car.
A 1969 Roadrunner.
A real burner.
As bruised fingers liquify
into a meadow of midnight,
Jolene
the directionally aware chevron queen
looks clear through me.
And with the municipality of the galaxy
Jolene says hypersonically,
“June moon got the tonic-clonic blues!
Are you listening to me?”
Jolene says, “Johnny Satellite
snap outta it. You hear me?
I don’t care ‘bout yer dynamic velocity
or yer silly brainstem.
And fer all of the flaws that gawd does have
I seriously doubt
that being a cheapskate is one of them.”
