Driving Locust Street
as I downshifted, a woman herded
a duck from the street and
Madonna belted out “Bitch, Get Off
My Pole,” and I
snorted the fresh cut grass
like heroin, multi-tasking
foot on brake clutch in
out foot on
gas—a delicate dance at speed
a man shuffled on the left, bottles
clanking into my open window—
Madonna would be annoyed at
the intrusion—he shuffled
in harmony—bend, pick, toss
into bag ripe and full
bulges poking like tiny feet searching
red light hard stop
momentum pulling its heart
beat the bass bumping impatience
bawdy lust bari sax foot
on gas—but
nowhere to go
but home to a man who thinks my
music is too
loud—among other things
—Katherine M. Searle
13 May 2015