Tire Town USA

An old flour mill
with opportunistic metalworks
(a rotting shack, really)
where the owner
saves a nickel on soap
for his one,
filthy sink.
Nineteen —
the age of the girl,
the age of the boy.
She enters
through swinging doors,
a summer song,
a blond goddess,
(braless),
white pants,
(nearly see —
through);
only thing beautiful within blocks.
He adores her
this nineteen-year-old boy,
forgets the rim popper,
He forgets the sharks,
(whistling and jeering)
His blue eyes sparkle
(like cold water)
he offers her a bottle of water,
(reaching for the sun)
and for a second,
it’s a movie;
A soft flicker as
two kids smile,
the smell of her hair,
against the diesel and grease.
But she looks down,
she sees his thumb print
on the plastic.
Now she resents him,
this dirty knight
in greasy overalls;
she declines.
“It’s cold,” he whispers,
as she walks away.
His shoulders slump
under the heavy inheritance
of the shop;
as the sharks bark and heckle.
The sparkle dies,
he realizes then,
he is being built
to look and to jeer
but never, ever to touch
the likes of her.