school bus blowing down a blue highway with his door open
at seventy on my scooter it is just bumpy enough:
this patched-up road stitched across patchwork fields—
screaming down straights under the insane sunshine, dispatching another hundred bugs to bug heaven—
swaying and snaking through forests with the trees so close together they almost brush your ears—
inhaling the thick plum wine smell of spring as it comes on like a drug, emerging everywhere from nowhere in lavender pointillism—
downshifting into eyeblink towns with addresses on Temperance Street—
passing little cafes and courthouses where plump white women wear bifocals and call me honey—
smiling at boys on bicycles whose eyes lust after my engine like a centerfold—
laughing at churches, because if there were a God, night would never fall
in nervous anticipation
eager and fearful
helpless and submissive
the road lies like a virgin
and I ravish her without remorse
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