Triumph

1.

Across rusted floorboards, bottles
of Bacardi rattle and roll under
the clutch. Small ones,
empty, airline-size.

Parked, dark night presses hard
on the fogged-up windshield.
Radio scratches out Paint It Black.

My hand grips the shift knob,
his slick fingers venture up
my thigh, entangled a moment
in the garter belt.

We do not sense the cop until
he flicks on his foot-long flashlight.

2.

Tonight, the moon
is a single headlight shining
on the asphalt night.

I ease the Volvo in cruise control
and remember me, seventeen,

embracing the risks
in that old Triumph ragtop—
no airbags, seatbelts, headrests.
No map in the glovebox, no
tread on the tires.

In the rearview mirror,
her eyes meet mine.

We grip the wheel
and lean into the highway.
I hear the grinding of the gears.

*

Leslie Hodge lives in San Diego. Her poems have appeared in the Arkansas Review, Pigeon Pages, South Florida Poetry Journal, Spank the Carp (where she was featured in The Mind of the Poet), Catamaran Literary Reader, and The Main Street Rag. www.lesliehodgepoet.com