He thought it was Heathrow International Airport
all over again. He lost a luggage
and round three in that fist
fight with a counter soap. He didn’t feel
he could trust Miss Bianca yet.
She handled the wheel
like a bumper sticker. He imagined
the neck of a hen snapping, its eyes doing a slot
machine trick, every time
she shifted gears. She called it soul.
It’s how I do the tango, she said.
She never took her high heel off the gas.
Rhythmically, he hit the brake
with his left foot. He commanded
another three-point turn in a deserted parking lot.
He thought: Here’s the right
hemisphere of my brain
contacting the alien mothership—for luck.