from the 70�s, i�m sure
moaning, spitting
sit on top
as my clothes swirl and bubble
legs hang over
toe-nail polish is chipped
faded like the paint on my old car
an old woman is in here
extra folds of skin tumbling down her arms
like an avalanche
her eyes are down
she mutters
to no one in particular
i wonder where she came from
a black man comes in and asks me if i want to dance-
he says the leaves are carpeting central park
and it�s prime time for loving
there are two girls kissing at the coin machine
their tongues unabashedly doing
some ancient indian tribal dance
i wonder if their mothers know
i gaze out the dirty window and see a woman
all legs, red lips
climb into an 86� crumbling volkswagon
i wonder if he knows that his wife knows?
they drive away in my old-rusted car
i toss in another dryer sheet
i�d rather buy nail-polish than paint, anyway
