following him around in his souped
up Honda, looking like Jane
Fonda. Eating plates of greasy
food from diners, from Maine

to the Carolinas. Sleeping in cheap
motels flashing bright neon signs. Driving
over state lines. Stopping in Florida
for a break he breaks out in a sweat as he eyes

the college girls in Daytona beach. The ones
wearing thong bikinis, holding peach bellini’s
in their hands. Not that they'd ever look at the old
man. The guy writing poetry in the sand. The guy

married to the same woman. They both lost
their youth. Like a pulled tooth there's a big
space where it was. But he still has his
tongue that he wags. Eating lunch out of

paper bags and drinking bottled beer
out of the cooler, sitting in beach chairs
and scratching the stubble of hairs on his face
as he faces another day that he doesn’t get laid.