White Sandals

Eleven years ago, a Friday,
driving back from a July trip
on business to Philadelphia,
I returned to the Island late,
near eleven o’clock.  The traffic
had been heavy and the rain
slowed things even further.
They were working on the Outerbridge Crossing
and on the Goethals too.  So by default
I had to use the Bayonne Bridge.
I took the Morningstar Road exit,
heading for Richmond Terrace.  The rain
had begun to let up, near ending.
After minutes on the near empty streets,
my headlights lighted up the figure
of a woman huddling in a doorway.
The high beams were a limelight
for her quotidian looks.  Being only human
I slowed the car to see her better.
In the darkness and comfort of the car,
I leered, furtively I thought.
In her gauze-like halter, her micro-mini,
and her white sandals she stood
nearly naked in the night,
small breasted, full rumped,
not smiling, not frowning,
eyes wide open like cake plates,
but with not one crumb of sweetness.
For, as I sped up again, she gave me
a One-Finger Salute and smirked.
(A well-deserved payment, I thought then
and even more so now.)  Once more
I sped the car toward home, to love.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012


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