Young Writers Society

Dolores and I ride down the river
For a long, sticky weekend or two
Stop to gas up near the border

Little man, tight boots and big teeth
Leans against the pump and asks
“Little lady preg-unt yet?”

Dolores does her lipstick
Ruby red like Louise Brooks
If they’d made her in color

Parts her blouse for the sheriff’s view
When I’m busy buying her an ice cream
Icy cool on a hot, hot, hot summer’s day

Kiss her, lashes down, knees on the wheel
Sunset‘s pink like a little girl’s slippers
But it fits Dolores like a dream

Hotel clerk gives me some funny look
“Say, didn’t we meet last summer
At that party in San Trope?”

“Never been to San Trope”
“You’d love it there,” he whispers
And slides me – two keys.

She spreads the money on the bed
And sheds the miniskirt
Those spiky orange heels never come off

They say drink before, smoke after
We drink and smoke before
Drink and smoke after

Little gal has a nightmare, again
Her poppa spanks her till she bleeds
On her momma’s big china saucer

“Love me always?” she coos
“Till pigs fly and roaches die”
She thinks roaches fly, and pigs die

We sway to Nat King Cole
He sings and we swing – mighty fine
In and out and close together now

Her back’s done bent itself in two
The lipstick’s smudged
Louise Brooks never looked so smart

Don’t think to muzzle it
Desert’s orchestra – bang, pow
A rat-rat-rat-rattles-u-nake

Drop the clerk’s key right in the light
Why close the door? Coyotes hungry
Take the money that ain’t stained

Drive up the river, think of San Trope
Sunset’s pink like a little girl’s shoes
Too tight to walk – you’ll just have to dance