in a Detroit loaner
Wind, whine, tunes
She says she hates convertibles
Something about hair
Wind blown tears
I imagine impossibly heavy, salty streams flowing from her eyes back across the implied convertible,
top down splashing on the front glass of the vehicles behind us
Their windshield wipers working sprightly coital rhythms to maintain visibility
She’s not sad! I shout as they pass us on the left
She’s just windy!
Just. She talks only of the neon house of love
How the picture will look
Will The King
or some alien
welcome us to sin city?
Will we dress as privateers?
Will we become privateers?
Hey what’s a privateer?
Why isn’t this a convertible?
The night we met
–it’s clear to me now;
I was drunk then–
I cringed at her tone while she
dragged working class pizza
sang the praises of
fresh basil from the herb garden out back
As if everyone gives two shits about sun-dried tomatoes
I had to look up “pesto”
She says she loves seafood buffets
I scan the desert sky for dimensional crafts
There’s a reason we never colonized the solar system
and probably never will, not until Space Pimp appears
That reason is sex, violence, dramatic hellscapes in space pods
Genocidal aliens got nothing on
fucking the right people at the wrong time
Who locks up the rapist-murderer when he’s
the only doctor on the moon?
Who murders the pilot when he’s the only one
who can get you back to Earth?
Who tells the only pharmacist, No?
Did NASA even war game this?
How much farther? she asks
Do I tell her now?
There’s still a lot of road
Still a few weeks from here to retrograde