tim tomlinson

Suddenly the Camaro

… was shaking – the chassis, I mean, and the
wheel, the whole steering column shaking and
I could feel the shaking through my hands and
my arms and the late afternoon rums and
the cold beer chasers that lubricated
our throats for the dry reds of dinner
and the palette cleansing cognacs that
followed while we canoodled on your
thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets
after our passions discharged the first or
the second or one of those times that we
gave in to the impulse of the moment
till it became the routine of the day

and even while it happened the thought,
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
running through my head and making I could
swear my body shake my hands shake and we'd
add more rum more beer more wine more cognac
to the glass laughing at how fucking crazy
it all was and how sorry we were and
how disappointed we were in ourselves
and how the next time we swore would be the
last time and we swore to make it awful
and I know I tried but you didn't help
and now my vision is double fucking
squared and the passing roadside an action-
painting brushstroke blur and I'm reaching for
another cold Coors from the cooler and
the Camaro is shaking right through my
wheel-hand shaking and the speedometer's
red needle has pressed past 105 on
its way to 110, 120 and I'm
laughing and shaking and sweating and
smoking and drinking and watching the white
lines vanish beneath the hood expecting
any instant now the one thing – the dog
or the deer or the cat or the cop – that
will make me stop …
'cause no one gets away
with the kind of shit I've been pulling for
ever … but it doesn't fucking appear.