a poem by Lena Judith Drake (2 of 2)

Corporal woos his Volkswagen (Not his,
he means, the lady belongs to herself)

Wiping gunpowder, motor oil, off her smooth metal,
her engine purrs, so he smiles.
Kisses the passenger window, tongue cooled by glass,
and he decides to make love to her.

Her windshield wiper arms spindly,
rations a little tight,
but she tries to hold him.
Should he penetrate the exhaust pipe, spout
of gasoline fog?
Thrusting in between the seat cushions,
pressing the metal buckle buttons with his thumbs?

It suffices to respect her too much, he decides.
There'll be plenty of time after the war.

© by Lena Judith Drake

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #5 ~ September 2009    previous poem