Sleepy as I almost always am most mornings,
I’m still mindful of all those other too-far-to-walk-so-I’ll-drive
somnambulists buzzing from Velveetaville to whatever hive
they turn their nectar into such honey
their queens (and creditors) consume.
This morning, as I sped my way squint-eyed
and fully present down the Interstate,
onto the Bypass, into this bureaucratic carpark,
and carefully up the lane to the open parking spaces ahead,
my flight was diverted. To my left, flying diagonally
across seven lanes of open parking slots,
a maroon Camry sped, aiming for one just to my right.
Behind the wheel, with her head already in
the eighth slot from the end of the row,
a woman with the target fixation of a rookie fighter pilot
vectored right at me. I stopped my car as she overshot,
oblivious to this silver Volkswagen she would have T-boned.
After I parked, I exited my car looking to T-bone her
with a stinger full of inventive invective.
That’s when the young woman in the short, tight,
burnt-orange knit skirt, black stockings and heels
crossed my path, and my attention became
a mindful observation upon the rhythmic wonders
and wonderfully soft mechanics of such creatures
the Lord has made.
As I reached the door to my building,
a different woman approached, sacks of bagels and fixings
in each hand. I smiled as I held the doors wide for her and
she returned my morning bonhomie with
a ring of cinnamon raisin thanks.
I figure Life’s too short to swat idiots when
I’ve black-stemmed American Beauty blooms to enjoy
and honey-walnut sweetness to spread, you know?