* * *

I won't say where his hand was--
I'll say that it was not on me,
'cause when I say he missed the split--
it was on Highway 53.

His other hand was on the wheel.
I cringed at the sound of squeal;
and yes, it's true, my belt was loose.
I was removing fake Ugg boots.

Authentic, though, they are..Ugg-ly.

* *

No warning sign, no guard rail there,
a hairpin turn that curled my hair--
I braced myself against the dash
sure that we would surely crash.

My husband? He was giggling
as my butt was wriggling,
awaiting for that two-wheel lean--
I held my breath and dared not scream -

I might have frightened him yanno;
and I was grateful I have grown
to weigh mumbled-murmer "x" pounds--
without 'em, we'd have left the ground!

And I still do not have wings--don't ask about the horns.

* *

Pragmatically, I'd tallied cost
of fussing when we both were lost.
Mississippi woods and miles
of old highway had snatched my smile.

Then the chest pains did commence--
I said to 'him'-- "y'got no sense"
he'd fiddled with the stereo
and turned the heater on real low.

He thought it was the volume key.
I did not argue.

* *

Suffocating, needing air,
I asked him if he knew just where
the hell we were--as if on cue,
I saw a sign in white and blue.

I kid you not--a question mark!
was laughing at me in the dark.
My husband had became quite grim
when he saw the lights grow dim.

No reflectors marked the way--
the white line faded to gray.
No other cars' companionship
It's been a long time since I'd tripped.

(I do not like cheap thrills no mo.)

* *

We'd driven into Twilight Zone
and oh-I-wanted to be home.
I sweated out anxiety.
I bit my tongue. I ground my teeth.

"Perhaps we are already dead."
(My enemy is my own head--
I imagine creepy things--
why do I read Stephen King?)

I tried to think of Duma Key.
Remembering re-member-ing?
I remembered "amputee",
and thought I'd think again.

* *

My bowels started making sounds
so I rolled the window down.
Now and then we passed a bar--
the kind that scream "you've gone too far!"

Perspiration was profuse.
My husband growing more obtuse:
"Y'think we ought to turn around?"
I glared at him but did not pound

his head, for mine was pounding more,
I held my hernia and swore
that if we made it home alright
I'd beat him as he slept that night.

I smiled to myself wickedly.

* *

Another sign said "WATCH FOR TRUCKS"
I shook my head and cussed my luck.
(I muttered other things that rhyme,
but I shall behave. This time.)

* *

Finally there in the night
was a sign in green and white:
"Gulfport" and so many miles
I exhaled. My husband smiled.

Some semblence of city lights
assured us we would be alright.
I thanked the stars that shined above--
the radio played "Radar Love".

"Ah, a soundtrack for our trek!"
B-but? We were not home just yet.
A pesky driver cut us off--
the license plate covered in cloth...

I got the creeps again.

* *

Something outside smelled quite dead.
My husband sniffed. I shook my head.
"Nope. Not me." He shrugged: "Sulfur."
"Hell," I nodded, feeling cursed.

A scenic route without a scene--
I felt trapped in a bad dream.
Another sign glowered in green--
"Exit" ominous "13".

(This type of stuff? It just...finds me.)


* *

That 'Christine' car crept off the lane.
I sighed. My hernia refrained.
My heart flipped flops, and oh, I cried
when I saw that I 10 sign.

My driver finally found the split.
(My driver?) Yes. For I had wished
"divorce" three times (at least) last night
and promised Gods I'd learn to drive--

for I cannot afford divorce in this economy.


* *

The highway imps laughed gleefully,
having got the best of me--
our driveway was an oasis--
I fought the urge to drop and kiss

the gritty, sandy cold concrete.
My husband dared to ask of me,
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Two words," I said, "The Moody Blues."

Okay. I lied. For that was three,
but I am typing tactfully:
The words I said did equal two.
Ron? I lied, revised, for you.!

  

* * *