As I rode up the New Jersey Turnpike this morning
with heavy metal on the radio and heavy metal all around
gesticulating, smoking, and burning, along came a car;
and it was painted green and lavender with cheap happy
violent paint and there were things hanging from it and
in it; and driving it was a person who looked like the
Queen of Sheba when she was a teenage kid; and she
was a driver from Hell, too.

She cut and sliced through the traffic like a rusty knife
cutting through delusion in a low bar. I cut after her.

"Oh baby," I breathed, "I love you and I love your car;
I love you and I love your car; I love you and I love
your car; and I love your dog and your boyfriend
and your mother!"

But she got away, up north towards the smoky
paradise where trucks go when they die, and the
great bridges bridge the fog from the fog to the fog
and dream iron dreams. I turned to the west. The
roads emptied into the working day.

copyright © 1998 Gordon Fitch