Time Warp

Driving north toward Charleston, Kitty sees signs:  sky the color
of sarsparilla, a dead and puffy armadillo, putrified, the dim contours

of a dream that she will glide in to the bar, observe her high school crowd
forty-five years later, like Dietrich on drugs, say nothing, see everything.

Emotions nailed, Kitty ignores the signs, drives another sixty miles,
turns a corner to the night version of her daydream.

The high school Fonz has become Pruneface, shoveled from his grave,
extending a cold hand: "My brother, truly dead, can't make it."

At her elbow is a geeky guy, forgettable than and now,
his smell surrounding her, like locker room sweat.

Kitty fades into a martini, and through the glass sees
Alfred E. Newman. "I'd know you anywhere," she lies.

A woman hammers her with small talk. "I'd like to say," Kitty cries,
"I'm an axe murderer on the side." The woman replies, "Yada yada."

Newman's eyes, meanwhile, are glued chest-level
where Kitty's flesh-eating name tag gnaws her tattoo.

Invisible shield over ink, hand over crotch, Kitty's now
Dietrich in drag. "A cold shower," she mutters, "to wake me up."

At 7 pm, she sidles down in slinky black dress, red shoes
to a blind date with dry veal, wet apricot tarts, and the animal farm.

Dietrich draped in silk, she purrs, "I wrote a book." No one in particular
answers: "My investments doubled." "My first child was hydrocephalic."

"I voted for Bush." "I live for dessert." "My son's an alcoholic."
"My sister killed herself." "My daughter's in a wheelchair."

Stalking Kitty is Mr. N. with a pitchfork: "My wife won't mind
if I photograph you nude -- for my private collection of tattoos."

Done with Dietrich, Kitty wraps her arms tight, retires to her padded room,
sleeps till morning, then -- bitch on wheels -- spins gravel.

...