Duct tape, silver in the light and smelling of glue. An aperture supporting tail pipes, bumpers, and adhering the passenger door to my mother’s car- lest it fall off. You know that I’m a kind man, but still you sneer at my duct taped car whilst I dream of your black hair, shiny like Joan’s and your pliable amber skin, so much like Rose’s. Soon we will be together, you and I.
I have followed your rounds over weeks and days- to your house. I sit and wait. You come and go. I can smell your perfume on the evening air- Oleander. I write poems: We are meant to be, just you and me. I shout them from the car. I have to open the door because the window won’t roll down.
A glance, thrown over your bare shoulder, our eyes meet. You trot to your car, lock the doors. A flash of silver flipped open, manicured fingers dial, red lips speak calling them- and then him. I would follow but you have bared your shoulder to me and I am erect. I close my eyes, imagine your hips and what they can do. I do not need to imagine much for I have seen you with him, smelled the sex lingering on you for days- but for me, the duct- tape king, all I get is my hand.
Release and a gratified sigh; fold it in into a newspaper, mother doesn’t like my taint in her car. But it is my car tonight and they’ll be by shortly- flashing lights form their blue and white cruiser. Step, step, step shod flat feet on pavement, flashlight in my eyes, the stench of donuts and coffee on their breath- “Mr. Mallard the restraining order says you can’t be here.”
I start the car, the engine rattles then roars. Not tonight- no. They will not find me when they come. I’ll be gone. They will wait my return, only I won’t come. I’ll already be there, in your house getting ready. I’ve written a new poem for just this occasion: Tonight the time is right- for you and I.
But first I must find a place to park.