Tonight's Poet Corner: Retrospective Road Trip
Retrospective Road Trip
by Belinda Roddie
We left town at two PM,
stopped by the gas station - not
for car fuel, but for a coke and some
Rolos - and after that, we were off.
We hit every place where I fell in love:
Monterey, kisses at the aquarium,
where the otters were holding hands.
Gilroy, sour tongues and salty lips
after eating garlic ice cream.
San Luis Obispo, hidden caresses
while scouring booths for squash
and cucumbers at the Farmer's Market.
Santa Barbara, where I first drank red
wine, and under the tutelage of a
beautiful woman with primped lips.
See, loves, you left as much of a mark
on me as the tires of my truck leave
on an already beaten down 101.
You won't catch me in Carlsbad,
hands up against the sea wall;
you won't find me under the arch
of Encinitas, crooning for lost love
under oceanside moonlight.
And you sure as hell won't see me
sneaking tequila shots in Tijuana, learning
Spanish from a mujer with a good eye for
darts and smooth hands and hips
for dancing. But maybe, just maybe,
you'll manage a glimpse of blue,
scratched fiberglass, and you'll hear
Brendon Urie's brass tenor pouncing
from the stereo speakers, and you'll
smell the garlic and salt water and Pinot Noir
buried under my darling's citrus perfume,
as I take one hand off the steering wheel
to press my thumb against her ruby ring.
by Belinda Roddie
We left town at two PM,
stopped by the gas station - not
for car fuel, but for a coke and some
Rolos - and after that, we were off.
We hit every place where I fell in love:
Monterey, kisses at the aquarium,
where the otters were holding hands.
Gilroy, sour tongues and salty lips
after eating garlic ice cream.
San Luis Obispo, hidden caresses
while scouring booths for squash
and cucumbers at the Farmer's Market.
Santa Barbara, where I first drank red
wine, and under the tutelage of a
beautiful woman with primped lips.
See, loves, you left as much of a mark
on me as the tires of my truck leave
on an already beaten down 101.
You won't catch me in Carlsbad,
hands up against the sea wall;
you won't find me under the arch
of Encinitas, crooning for lost love
under oceanside moonlight.
And you sure as hell won't see me
sneaking tequila shots in Tijuana, learning
Spanish from a mujer with a good eye for
darts and smooth hands and hips
for dancing. But maybe, just maybe,
you'll manage a glimpse of blue,
scratched fiberglass, and you'll hear
Brendon Urie's brass tenor pouncing
from the stereo speakers, and you'll
smell the garlic and salt water and Pinot Noir
buried under my darling's citrus perfume,
as I take one hand off the steering wheel
to press my thumb against her ruby ring.
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