The sky is on fire with red and orange clouds
that stretch from the Delaware River in front of me
to the Schuylkill right behind.
On the TV screens of bars
I see the Traffic Girls dance
to Alicia Keys
in front of green screens
to John Legend
in tight dresses
their legs and asses that don’t fill them
the base pounding the nitrogen out to greet them
sending shock waves, but not quite.
The plasma screen rattles and beats in time
like a flat glass heart about to break
They take me to the highway as I lie strewn across
the road of my desperation
the road of my desire
the same roads they report upon
beneath the twisted wreckage of my life.
I should’ve died on the way down here
I should be in pieces across Route One.
Maybe I am
and Andree too,
still smiling that ridiculous smile
he hands me the vodka
and stares with me at the asphalt horizon
as two wavy lines, less detailed than stick figures,
inch closer toward us along the road
expanding, gathering mass from the haze.
They approach and show themselves
the Traffic Girls
alien-thin and all eyes
not as rescuers
not as conscientious objectors
but as witnesses who are indifferent.
The taller one stands over my head
the ruffled edges of her dress billow up around
the straight, smooth lines of her legs.
My eye follows the lines
until I am pulled into
the vanishing point between them.