It was late in the day
one summer,
I was jamming on I-40
descending the Blue Ridge
when she pulled up
alongside me.

Her radio was blaring country,
she was sporting
Georgia plates
& shot me a
beautiful Southern-smile,
then she bolted
like lightning,
probably reached
over a hundred-miles-an-hour
in that cherry red Mustang
of hers.
I mean she was smoking,
her hair was flying,
& never gave me time
to ask her for anything,
not for a date or
even if she
wanted to play.