There we sped down the highway
leaving town, windows down
going north.
You drive like a bat out of hell, twenty above the speed limit
one hand sneaking up my skirt in the suicide seat.
Can’t keep your ****** hands to yourself.
My head tilted back,
Ignoring you a little bit
to watch the light from the western sun
glint off your new rosary:
semi precious stones and Jesus
dead and ******, oversized in bronze.
Oh, our resounding love
and church qualified sin.
It’s a little too much
how the juxtaposition of our separate lives
crash together in the summer,
when it’s too hot to wear your
penguin suit
little black dress
cassock.

I’m not bitter.