Dragsters

We meet after dark in an industrial park
the emboldened have converted
into a makeshift race track
We meet in the dark.

You ride a Kawasaki blue lighting kamikaze
My chariot is Audi with a gear box, zero to 80
that zips like bullet in a barrage of boulders
We meet in the dark, as well we should.

We speed opposite to Hummers and tankers
between 16-wheelers, inches from curtains.
Where pedal meets metal, kid,you got balls,
but I have twin exhausts pipes that can't be matched.

And so we resolve the evening's romance,
a game from which neither will retire too young
nor would we wish to retire too bent out of shape.
You're only 16. I'm 27. You're just a babe on the highway of life.

Your camp name is "Where's Funny," you live a warehouse.
Question marks are written all over your sweater
My camp name is "Roadster," I live in a cellar
Next to the bed posts, I park chariot and umbrella.

Speaking of which, let me slip into something ice out of leotards too sticky,
of black leather straps and matching bra, and helmet tucked to the chin
The blinds are shut tight; daylight's for sleeping. Night time is our time
for smoking the circuit. We meet in the dark, always have, always shall.