I like older women
with their slightly appealing , barely noticeable curves,
sturdy bodies covered in the deceiving veil of fragility,
marked
by the wear and tear of the life bumpy roads,
by the abandoned trips’ hazards,
by the snowy days’ crystal teeth,
by the hot sweat of the sidewalk,
with meat of asphalt and a black, slimy heart,
by the wiry, rigid lines reeled down on their age spool,
sawn in tight corsets for body and mind,
but still attractive in their kinky bodies these old women,
still highly functional,
like reliable old cars
that you trust more and more
and they lift your spirits,
like you are a smart banker
who made a good investment,
the higher the mileage gets, the more enjoyable the drive,
and you know
for a fact
that they still have lots of good, cheap, fun rides
left in them
I love to browse
the vintage cars on display
in the lifeless parking lots of the gloomy supermarkets
on Sundays afternoons,
when the crowds thin out like receding tides,
going back to their ocean of Monday’s anonymity,
oversized parking lots
suddenly brought back to life by patches of color,
showing their bare, cracked skins punctuated
by dots of pink and red and blue,
covered by the satiny fabric made out of metal,
the smooth skins of cars
built by engineers who liked Barbie dolls,
and maybe played with them
when they had a break from work
I love
the sugary look of the old, curvy cars,
the shiny hard candies covered by droplets of rain carrying the tears of the day passed,
and never coming back,
lost
the ensconced love affairs burning with desire
the soft leather of chairs,
lost
the engine raging like a bull trapped in a tight cage of steel,
eating the road like a caramel to easy to chew,
lost
the memories of the cars made out of cotton candies,
swishing through the liquidly air of a beach road,
lost
the soft embrace of the snuggly chairs to sleep in and dream on
your youth vain dreams,
lost
the pink heart of that Chevy
the color of the fading jealousy,
lost
the youth time spent too quickly
on the highroads of living fast,
living high,
living intense
And why
those older women
shouldn’t wear their colored wardrobes of the sixties,
dress in their flashy robes,
wrap on their puffy shawls,
put on their dancing shoes,
rock-and-roll-ing their way through the day,
or their sandals the color of the ruffled dunes of sand,
smoking long, white cigarettes
at the wheels of the cakey cars of their youth,
cars gone and stuffed for display
like hunting trophies,
with the light in their eyes gone,
spent on the highroads
of lives lived
without the illusory gain
of immortality
