Joanna
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Sheba
As I rode up the New Jersey Turnpike this morning with heavy metal on the radio and heavy metal all around gesticulating, smoking, and burning, along came a car; and it was painted green and lavender with cheap happy violent paint and there were things hanging from it and in it; and driving it was a person who looked like the Queen of Sheba when she was a teenage kid; and she was a driver from Hell, too.
She cut and sliced through the traffic like a rusty knife cutting through delusion in a low bar. I cut after her.
"Oh baby," I breathed, "I love you and I love your car; I love you and I love your car; I love you and I love your car; and I love your dog and your boyfriend and your mother!"
But she got away, up north towards the smoky paradise where trucks go when they die, and the great bridges bridge the fog from the fog to the fog and dream iron dreams. I turned to the west. The roads emptied into the working day.
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