High Beams
My heart turns over
like a cold V8 every time
I see him.
If I could only get this beast
out of Park and into Drive.
We stall at intersections.
While horns honk and middle fingers
salute, I look over at him.
He shrugs.
He’s too old for this.
What do I have to do to get his attention?
The car alarm goes off, over and over.
He sees the red hair, the brown eyes, the paint job,
racing stripes.
He compliments me on my chrome rims.
Finally, a pulse.
I’ve got his attention.
Shit!
He’s lost in the headlights.
© Anne Westlund
prompt: write a love
poem or an anti-love poem
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