bargaining with my wristwatch.
Find me! I am waiting in the parking lot
at the Burger King near the overpass on 49th Street.
I thought I was waiting for my lover
but I don’t think he ever loved me,
which made the minutes fry, then salt,
which made me hope for sweetness,
which made me explode the moment
into an asphalt nightmare.
We may have been condemned,
but we can still drive fast cars
and stop waiting for stalled lovers.
So, find me.
No one has taken me,
no one has hidden me,
but I am missing.
If I understand time, will I be blessed or cursed?
If I am the girl waiting in the parking lot,
I shall bring a book, so I will not be waiting, but reading,
not look up or create a rumbling muffler that signifies my lover,
whom I think I love, but as I remember him ... could not now love,
except in that universal way that humans love their species.
Find me Charlie Crews, find the minute that is ours,
that fictional minute that is now, but has passed since I asked you.
I am caught in a nanosecond when my car keys disappear, and if
I cannot find my keys, I am locked out of that fast car we both love.
If I locate the key, can we go on a road trip?
There is something easy
about conversation at 70 mph,
speech merged with speed, with confession,
with landscape and wind.
I’m unloading the groceries
from the Corvette, and driving.
Intercept me at the rest stop on I-75 —
the one north of Paynes Prairie.
I’ll be waiting, head against the glass,
book open to the last page.
Issue #1
12