The geezer in the tam on the other side of the pump
sniffs something like a mix of cooked cabbage and hay,
wonders as he peeks around the hose
at the convertible and its driver —
which one is vintage:
the old hippie hag leaning against the fender,
or her beat up junker in its worn white war paint,
rust rotted and rutted by too many
drunken nights on country roads,
and only God knows what all?
The geezer nods knowingly and whispers to himself,
“Just the kinda setup for one of them there Occupy terrorists.”
From his view behind the window wash barrel,
he judges the perp to look as tall and thin
as the old hack she drives is long,
a sight standing there in thrift store pantaloons,
tits halfway chugging out of her shaggy blouse,
sequined slippers with upturned toes,
shoulder blades stuck out like wings,
witchy/bitchy hair scattered out of a red kerchief,
glass baubles shaking off her chest —
a menace to society and law and order.
Is that a Lucky or a toke stuck in her lips?
The getaway vehicle sags to one side
in scummy white walls, pink terry cloth interior,
fuzzy black balls swinging from the rear view mirror,
golden eagle on the hood, radio blasting
“Me and Mu Bobby Mug-Geeee-ahhhhh,”
“Make love, not war” slapped on the bumper,
four barrel carb exhausts shoved out its flat ass,
tail fins as long and sharp as a fighter jet’s.
“Trunk no doubt packed tight with a payload
of that there LSD and marywanda kinda shit,”
the geezer harrumphs as the fabled flower child
cranks her up, “VARRROOM, VARRROOM,”
and wads up his lips in disgust
as she roars out of the Hurry Hop
lifting half the tarmac with her,
and ssss-O-A-RRR-ZZZZ…