Stuck in traffic
against impossible odds.
I have a window seat
to the mid twenties blonde
in the driver seat
of the car beside this bus.
I am peeping her while she is
dipping her inflexible metal
spoon into honey,
then thick greek
yogurt, then tasting
and turning it backwards;
Licking the slick dome,
observing there is more
stuck. Licking it.
Observing it.
Licking and observing.
She repeats this over
and over;
Dipping, licking, and looking
while we all wait
for the traffic to clear,
for the spoon to clear,
for the little resevoir of honey
to empty. But she persists,
digging into her
sticky plastic shaft, chizeling
a droplet more of golden
honey. Licking it every inch
we process.

The spoon hangs from the tip
of her gripping tongue;
savoring the delicious gravity
of slow moving honey,
of slow moving vehicles,
of slow moving eyes
curling her direction.

I think she must know
I am writing this poem.
She does not acknoledge
or the bus load.
She is the perfect muse
and then traffic moves
and she is gone
while I am moving forward
without her.
She turned on Mercer.

Timing was perfect.
The car.
The bus.
The blonde.
I can't imagine
there must have been
much honey left to be licked
after all the licking
I watched
while I played in my pocket,
fumbling with my transit
transfer, as I'm known to do.

narrative poem written on 04-03-2013 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


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