Another wave crashes into the cemented, sand-etched blocks of stone …
Outrage, betrayal spasm within you, in tears again, you rock at the wave.
Foamed brine showers the hood and roof of the fourth-hand Volvo…
“How dare he …,” a punch to the wheel. “Three years. Three years, cooking, cleaning, wiping his ass, all for his precious degree …”
The right tires cleave a path through the flooding road, day fading to night…
“and the ink’s not even dry on that parchment piece of shit when I find
them in our god-dammed bed!” You punch the steering wheel again and …
As the wind howls a monster against the sea wall, an explosion of spray…
the dashboard. “All those times she was over to dinner, with the others.
I taught her to cook, listened to her bitch about guys who’d cheated …”
This time, scores of children drench the car with pails of ocean, left wheels…
“and the girls who’d stolen them. And now here she is stealing my god-
dammed marriage! White knuckles squeeze the life from the wheel, your …
Now cutting foamy ribbons, the road narrowing, constricting from sand …
vision only her, them, the yellow streamer of the center-line, in a halo of
white hot anger.
And spasms of salt water, while in the car’s wake, ocean bridges bay.
You barely notice the policeman’s glare as you pass the barricade, amber
lights flash your mirrors as the road curves,
steering your storm inland, out of the flood zone.
