You have already surrendered
though you do not know it
as you slip your cold, dry hand against my thigh.
Four-day-old lovers, and I let it lie on my thigh--
I am driving your dirty blue Ford on I-95;
Just wait till tonight, baby. Wait till tonight.
I wonder as I smile my strawberry smile
whether you have wondered why, in four days time,
I'd fall catatonic for your cigar-smelling beard, your yellow grin.
But I don't really mind:
you might find me easy or airy
or maybe you think it's your wit or your guile.
I smile my sugary, canary-cat smile.
And as road signs roll by,
the breath seethes through your teeth.
You stretch out your denim and tilt your head closer to mine
tobacco tongue flapping to banjo heaven
chewing your cola and your orange rinds.
And you sigh of our Bourbon Street honeymoon,
Red-light lovers' corners in 400 miles--
just wait till tonight, baby, wait till tonight.
And you don't know it yet, but you'll be number five,
so I don't mind your hand creeping over my thigh.
The very last drive of your blue-Ford life.
You tug at my buttons,
ragged brown nails scratching white plastic shells.
I say "Wait till tonight, baby, wait till tonight."
As you grasp further towards my soft precious prize
I imagine the look in your horrified eyes, and I smile
as I run one finger down your chest.