Creation stopped--for Me--

by Bill Jansen

A bullet riddled speed limit sign
was whistling Dixie by the road
when a Ford Fairlane stopped
and the petite woman driver said:
"Hee hee. Get in-- Wile E. Coyote, (I presume)."
She introduced herself
as Emily Dickinson,
comet-tailed back onto the freeway
(while lighting up a Pall Mall)
and began to converse rapidly
in aphorisms and oblique sentences.
Finally, remembering perhaps my existence,
she asked:
"so whatcha doin, Wile E."
I release my death grip on dashboard,
and repeat my favorite lie,
said I'm ticking off the requirements
for a hitch-hiking merit badge.
She gave no sign whether she
believed me or not,
but she sure was a nice change
from whatever it was
that left me earlier that day
on the same road shackled to a bee.
Her eyes were marriage ceremonies
in a Swiss Convent garden.
As twilight began to yield to night
she let me out in Tulsa.
Gave me 10 bucks for a motel,
but unfortunately I lost
the stubby yellow pencil
she said was made
from the wood of Calvary.