The Trip across Texas is mine.
Well, it’s in my name.
The bank picks up the tab,
I grab the fantasy:
he practices my autograph
in a cheap motel like a kid
does Mickey Mantle’s.
His girlfriend is horny,
pretty and young, naked
but for an anklet with chain
linked to a ring on her toe.
Her thighs are tattooed
He says, “Wait one Goddamn
minute,” goes out to test
my card on a carton of Camels,
beer and a convenience store rose.
“YES, YES,” she shouts applauding his success.
He complains, “Can’t play the Lottery
with this fucking thing,” as she kisses
my hologram, licks my magnetic strip.
He lights a fat strawberry candle.
My MasterCard bounces on a pillow
like a mint at a Sheraton.
On the way to the malls,
a cop pulls them over.
She slips my card down her jeans,
flirts the ticket down to a warning.
At the Texas Art Supply
they buy expensive brushes.
She digs being painted with air.
It’s a Wal-Mart for a rifle,
fancy camera and telescope,
CD’s of nature noises.
Returning to the room, they stop
for a dozen Dove Ice Cream Bars,
a home pregnancy test.
She says if they don’t get caught
she’ll name the kid after me.
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