Drivng Locust Street

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