Roadside Assistance I wait for Rita to pull over to the shoulder, Slip across the seat and whisper

loves desire. She just repeats that I should talk to a priest If I need salvation. Were not Catholic I say; Rita eyes me as if my words Need tuned. I could say, its only a kiss Away, to steal line, but she never cared For rock and roll anyway. Rita pushes the car Passed seventy. Late January grips this Warren County road where the farms look bored and tired. Ritas bored and tired. Me: I wait for her flame To light before we reach some town that suits Her fancy; my moneys on a quaint village Where in a homespun diner, the gray in Ritas hair Will break me. Love, Ill whisper, reach across the table, And run a finger along the edges of her painted nails.