You keep me waiting in your car
because you recognize a friend
parked up here in his truck,
alone and just staring out at the dark lake,
the phantom trees on the other side.
On the way here,
you let slip the question,
“are you wearing any underwear?”
like that was the coolest thing
a guy ever said to a woman.
I must confess, I didn’t want to excite you,
just be with you.
And now even that is no longer an option.
You’re worried because
Luis’ father just died
and you don’t know how it stands
with him and that nurse he’s been dating.
So he gets your sympathy
while I’m left with nothing but your fake leather.
And I’m feeling suddenly unwanted,
like my mother must have done
when my father left us.
And it’s cold.
By the time you get back,
my engine will be cold also.
It’ll still have the strength
but the will is not something that waits around.
I’m already preparing the words.
“Why don’t you just drive me home.”
Chances are, by the time you’re through
talking Luis up from the depths,
that’ll be it for your sensitivity tonight anyhow.
And without that,
you can keep your passion.
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.