UNTITLED

© 1999 Clinton Cyril Somerton

The red light stopped you at my feet
convertible girl
squirming in that hot afternoon skirt
you know you wore for me

Your shooting eyes
tell me not to look
behind sunglasses;
tell me to my face
and I'll stare at adverts
painted overhead
not caring

I can watch
reflected sun-dot sliding
white across your candy-apple hood
your hood pulling away
your bare legs on scorching vinyl

. . . if I were
your child
I would reach up for you
like a tree branch
reaching
and I would go mad
without you

But I choose to go imagining
you driving on
painted lane-dots stretching white closer
into fast lines shooting
into your rear view
on their way . . .
while you speed passed
red brick chunks of truth and empty sky
not caring.

*****