Engineer, Noon, SUV

Across the short span of vinyl seat shot
A blue spark of desire and bafflement,
Beginning in his inner heart and ending never.

She was small, tightly dressed, flirting.
His stored up longings for excitement and life:
Janice would never understand.

He was a chemical engineer, chief of section,
Responsible for cracking polymers and other beings.
She, a salesperson, pushing valves and sluices.

She had done well, selling valves and sluices
To men like him, who wore expensive watches and
Who knew right from wrong but were prepared

To make the crossing.

It was noon and his SUV was quiet and cool
As it coasted along the River Road. A red Dakota
Was behind them; he began to fashion

Alibis and explanations. Then the Dakota overtook them
And, providentially, there appeared a spur of asphalt
So convenient for parking. Park he did,

And reaching immediately for her hand,
He brought it to his lips as the floodgates of
Pleasure and guilt opened in unison.

--Jim Bolner, Sr.
June 14, 2001