Sylvie Go Away
And then I’m driving the world’s slowest getaway car
through this Walmart parking lot party, man after man
turning their grizzled faces to glare at me, the buzzkill girl
breaking up their tailgate. I wish that was the worst of it, but no,
every few feet someone drags their charcoal grill
out of my way, a kid in the Metallica shirt flips me
the bird as my van gate-crashes his party. Ruining
everything. Halfway to tears (Sylvie, so fragile). Should I roll down
my window and apologize? Will they spit on me?
Maybe I deserve to be spit on. Knox obviously thought so,
had no problem watching from the bushes while
his pal Dawn the murder hippy struck me across the face.
Hundreds of miles he sat beside me, telling half-truths
about his entire existence. In this moment I don’t care
if I’m a hypocrite. I’m apologizing to no one now,
and when I finally get myself back onto the road,
onto this empty stretch of concrete between me
and the next stoplight, when there’s nothing and no one
for me to run down and kill, I relax just a little,
just enough that I’m surprised when the truck and I collide.