To You the Tail-Gater

To You the Tail-Gater


This is not a party. I don’t want to roast hotdogs
with you in the back of someone’s truck
outside a large stadium (paid for with my taxes)
with large violent men inside who want to be violent
who we want to be violent but not too violent
because that’s not civilized
but we still watch for the crashes.
Did you hear that:
I still watch for the crashes.
No, this is the moment when you decide to increase
the sexual tension between your bumper
and mine, a little car-cuddle at 60 miles per hour
in a 50 stretch of country road our automobiles
puckering their lips so close; two fists are about to meet.
I’ve been scanning my rear view mirror
for some time now, keeping an eye on you.
If my daughter was driving and I saw you
reaching out to touch her bumper
the way you want to touch mine I might jerk
the wheel, smash into you and bury you
in the side of the road, put you down
next to the dismembered raccoon
and his flattened neighbor the opossum,
both left to think about what they’ve done
in their own blood and organs. Have you keep them
company awhile while you get to know the face
of that black-top real good. But it’s just me now.
Me and you.

Although, now that you’re this close
perhaps you trust me, me, with your life,
to not suddenly brake, to not suddenly halt
at life’s furious speed.
Perhaps your grandmother, in hospice,
is waiting for you the long lost grandson,
and your appearance will finally release her from this life
and I really need to pull over

Maybe I’m the only one
you’ve got speeding on this deathly ridge called life,
and it’s me you trust.
Thank you.