Lifting my foot
from the accelerator
I stomp
the radio hoping
an assault will
tweak a lazy
like a starlet fainted
on film slapped back
to consciousness.
It doesn’t work and my
girlfriend continues
humming and tapping,
disturbing the dust
the dashboard
like a tactile
She can play
the real thing too,
keyed off a piece
for me once on
a poorly tuned
upright in a resort
hotel lobby –
ninety-degree heat
nearly ringing
as if in league
with tuning forks.
I imagine her now
in a slick sports car:
clutch, brake and gas
pedals like those
on a 5 star hotel
cutting edge radio
blaring a concerto.
Top down, a forte
stomp then scofflaw
speed greets tidy
winds that clear
memento dust
that’s settled.