somewhere between Hialeah and Hell,
I’m ignoring signs that bid me farewell
because my tints are far too dim
and I’m under the influence
passing hookers and hotels,
Cuban cigars and every smell
that’s stronger as we near the end
of a street with a less forgettable name than hers.
I see a ring wrapped
around her freshly painted fingers,
delivered from a guy
who needed a green card.
He paid, but so did she,
her with youth, unfortunately.
She cried all night
about not being a loving wife
and not feeling sexy for too many nights.
Can I blame her for taking a chance?
She did more than I did
to have love in her life.
I’m taking wrong turn after wrong turn
just to spend a little more time with her,
hoping there’s more than meets the eye,
that only the wine is dry,
that the blonde is just a dye,
that she’s smarter than I remembered,
that the thoughts in her head don’t die
the moment they leave her.
We roll to a standstill,
knowing traffic only kills
those who drive alone
staring at the wheel,
not with a demoness,
who only partly feels real,
shaped like an hourglass,
ready to spill.
She waved her red flags
seven years too late.
Every red light shined
the evil in her face
and turned any desire
of putting her on a plate
into a realization that
I’ve made a mistake.
Dessert can wait.
