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 spot 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 

to have love in my 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.