I like the older women
with their bodies dented
by the wear and tear
of the lovehatred’s chores and the slow aging pruning,
and still attractive,
still highly functional,
efficient, sleek,
resilient to the bumps of the life roads,
that nobody will ever fix for driving smooth
or safe,
like reliable likeable old cars
that still have lots of good rides
left in them
The men boys love to watch
the cool, sleek vintage cars
on display
on the fractured pavement of the dull parking lots,
unhealthy, cracked skin of gloomy superstores,
the cars like rainbow jawbreakers,
and puffy cotton candies,
like the fur of pink panther toys made out of dotted plush,
like they’ve not been built for the road
but for the eye’s pleasure,
by children engineers,
cars contaminating with the longing for the better past,
in the improvised candy stores
with counters made of asphalt
where the men boys dream
of eating ice cream in red-goldish parlors
while Elvis sings songs
that nobody pays attention to
because he’s going to sing forever
and be there for everybody
forever
To fit in the décor of the outdoor candy stores,
these older women
will put on their Saturday night dresses,
will wear again their cotton candy sixties wardrobes,
their glitzy jewels made out of rain dreams,
the flashy robes of the careless times
when the sky was close and you could touch with your hand
the hems of the stars,
while the night was cool
but not as cool as their scandalous cutout dresses
or their stringy sandals
the color of fresh donuts
served with roast coffee
and blueberry pancakes,
and strut alluring,
maddeningly young and fresh,
on the improvised promenades
in the dull yards
of the depressing gray superstores
coughed out by a depressing dwarf time,
full of no name merchandise,
anonymous labels stuck on our dozing off,
numbed out spirit of the sixties,
a time for women and cars
