When you rumble by me, know this: My alarm
is set too sensitive to be
on this city street. The Jeep and red
Mustang almost set me off, but moved
away just in time. When I feel your hum,
the stick figure family on my back
window trembles as if the mother
in the pencil skirt may become burlesque,
her flat vinyl chest leading the peel until
there is only a hole between the fisherman father
and the ballerina-skirted girl. If you find her later,
clinging to the side of your gas tank, think of me,
parked here at the corner of Broad and High,
my meter slowly running out.