Shades in the Rear View Mirror

Her hair darted

and was slammed down

like a wrestler on the mat.

It danced and sprang back up

and floated like a wisp of smoke

above sizzling twigs.

Her shades

caught a glint of sun

and seemed to dissolve 

in the rearview mirror.

I was mesmerized 

and the chase was on

for miles and miles

on the twists of the Taconic,

a boxy, grey CRV

trailing a sleek Mercedes

its top down,

like a low-cut dress.

My interest peaked,

like a tomcat prowling.

but all I wanted

was to watch her hair

flailing like Medusa's,

uncontained,

scarfless, hatless,

oblivious to elements 

and the unraveling

it would demand

when the ride was over.


"Now what is this all about?"

I asked myself.

"I believe I've transcended,"

Van Morrison responded

immediately,

repeatedly

on the stereo system

like a gnome

back from the mountaintop.

"I believe I've transcended,

I believe I've transcended,

I believe I've transcended time."


So I scribbled notes

on a manila folder

while rounding curves

across from Farnestock Park

and slowed as Mercedes slowed

and saw the cop's cruiser

facing us head on 

just before I cut sharply

to stay on the road.


If I were to write 

that I pulled my wheel too far,

and skidded into a tree,

I would have a story.

If I were to write

that Mercedes glided by a ticket,

but I did not,

I would have a story.

If I were to write

that she waved gaily

as she signaled her 

exit at Hopewell Junction,

I would have a story.


But visions like this

have no denouement

because they

have no climax

and certainly

no curtain drops

because

they do,

indeed,

transcend time,

and I've never been one

to finish a story

anyway.

    Copyright © 2006 - 2017 Thom Forbes, all rights reserved.