Whipping a stolen ’81 T-Bird convertible across the desert
on a star-flung summer night,
top down, tunes cranked up to blast–
Stones, Dylan, Van the Man–
a half-pound of trainwreck weed on the seat
between you and a laughing strawberry blond
with legs from here to Heaven
who you picked up hitching out of Barstow
leaving a dipshit husband behind
along with a lot of a young girl’s dreams–
though she understands
there’s an innocence we never lose,
and if you’re going her way,
she’s always wanted
to walk out on a third-story balcony naked
in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras
just to feel the night on her body–
and sure, none of this is even close to love,
but sometimes you’ve just got to scratch to get by.