In the crash my hood was crumpled
like a discarded sock
or like Zebedee coiled to pounce
but with no spring in him, stuck
fast in his fluted compaction.
All those nights of fervent waxing
buffing up to a blushing shine
you could see your face in
brought to a perfect lustre
with an urgent kneading action;
those early risen mornings
tending to the throbbing
lump below, some lubricant here,
a quarter turn of a screw there,
or just gazing at it in wonder.
And now—
She blames me,
says I should look further ahead
and keep both hands
where she can see them.
I wouldn’t mind but it’s been years
since I last took her out for a ride.
(c) 2013 Slush Poet
Well THAT's quite rude :)
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