Cherry Red Sports Car
It’s Sunday and the sun is sporting a full shine.
I see you seated in the passenger seat of your
cherry red sports car heading northbound on N.E. 15th Street
toward N.E. Alberta Street. My head turns
as if on a swivel. The realization some guy is driving your
brand-new cherry red sports car irks me. It really does.
You earned the money to purchase that sports car.
His smile beams like a monkey sitting on the shoulder
of a fancy hotel bellhop. My imagination conjures up
the young man parking cars at a 5-star restaurant.
And you, young lady, stop it, just stop it! Stop stooping down,
bowing down, laying down your intelligence,
emotional intelligence, your virtue. He does not care about you.
Your cherry red sports car means way more to him than
your cherry red lips. Let Slick know he’s turning the wrong trick,
and that treat will never be his again. My neck is sore now.
It’s still Sunday and the sun is sporting that full shine.
I'm gonna go oil my swivel.
© emmett wheatfall