POETRY

I’d passed her
many times by the Parking Lot,
a late model beauty with no visible dents,
a living billboard of transient sex.
Sad, sultry and superior,
a demonstration rental with an understated promise
of performance guaranteed.
She could be mine for a minimal fee.

I decided to take her for a drive.
I slid in, opened up the glove box,
explored the leather interior,
experienced the smooth handling
of the manual stick.
Inserted the ignition key
zero to fifty in fifteen seconds flat
on her back.

I was in the driver’s seat,
really enjoying the ride,
handling the curves,
lovingly hugging the road,
barely noticing the bumps,
negotiating a turn of the head.
I signaled - another turn
“I don’t kiss.” she said.
I down-shifted to second.

But, I’d already paid the toll.
So I focused on performance, shifted up to third,
slammed it into fourth, eased her into fifth,
blasted on the straightaway screaming for home.
All I wanted was to kiss her now.
Another turn – I hit the breaks,
slowed to a crawl, backed out,
killed the ignition and
returned the key to the front desk.

She was back in her space at the Parking Lot,
none the worse for wear, kiss intact,
my toll in her boot, headlight winking
and me thinking “What did I hold back?”
Exhausted, decelerated, and deflated
I resolved forevermore:
It’s autoerotism for me.

m.landers 12/02