Friday is coming calling for you –
Put your lipstick on and primp your hair,
Smooth down your skirt and
Breath nervously, like a teenager,
As you answer the doorbell.
Smile like a shiny neon thing, quiet though,
As the handsome Friday stands shifting on the doorstep
While your father looks over your shoulder
To say, “you kids be careful now and
Be home by midnight, hear?”
But nobody’s listening, Friday and you
You’re cruising in that T-bird like it could
Take you to heaven and hell.
The leatherette is soft and stitched under your thighs
And his hand is soft on top.
Hendrix is playing Voodoo Chile on the radio
The way we all like it, bluesy and hot –
Nothing feels better than that first drag of cigarette
Or the wind whipping the smoke out of your mouth,
As Friday drives with the top down.
He stops for gas, about ten miles from home,
And when he goes inside, you look at that
Long black tongue of road and
You think about that Hendrix playing,
The top down with the wind riding you clear
From the day and your dad and Friday’s
Soft soft hands,
And you slide across the seat,
Hitching your skirt up to get past the stick
Turn the keys, without once looking back,
And just start that engine.
Words or Whatever
November 2012 @ Blackstar Coffee. Last month, Doubting Thomas had a well-endowed rage against the machinery of noise and body, with three other interesting male poets. This coming month, Betsy Turcot and are I curating/collecting/giggling/gasping with a group of female poets.
We’ve thought long and hard to be this disrespectable.
You will wanna know who, you will wanna know why, you will wanna know how – so keep your ears open and your heart light.