He's on to something

by Anna Donovan

Down Marsh Lane at high noon today
he's a one man freedom parade
in a red, white and blue bandana
and a roguish smile as he throttles
through traffic
with the effortless ease
of knowing fingers.
 He's onto something
of a lawless and aimless
abandon,
a rush simmered
and sustained
on the road.

At the stoplight
he caresses the bare,
well-toned leg
of the woman behind him,
she clings to his back,
claws at his chest.

He throws
his head back
and she leaves a trail
of blond dirty,
wet love bites
on his neck,
and I see them
naked, tangled, messy
and grimy,
her legs a taut noose
round his torso.

He's onto something,
and it wafts
down my spine.