Who's to say a man's love
is designed to force
only one nasty way,
not stroke the limn
of free drugs,
not exit with tix in hand
coupling in a car with a runaway,
stalled out on the bypass
then lurching out, loading
a Blackhawk revolver,
designated driven
in a lemon ride
by damaged goods,
her hair falling over
the seat back
like corkscrew lemon rinds,
shocks knocking
as she lurches back
into a free lane,
aiming the Zephyr
for the blue glass
penis needle skyscraper
on Durham's edge,
peeling rubber through
what once were forests,
not fidgeting
with the cabbage wad,
handing it over
behind a BBQ spot
to an albino with gold teeth
who proffers a big satchel
of little baggies,
speed like blue fruit,
January's palette
a zesty spearmint.
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