The desert heat was pissing on my car,
an old blue jag with more years then me;
bands of sweat remain where my hands
grip the wheel and my brow is damp
above dark aviators:
I'm a bad mother fucker cursing through the
coast up towards Barcelona.
Some French singer is crooning hard luck stories;
it's a waste, as I ignore the "pal mal vie dans paris,"
there's too much ocean to stare at.
The Siren appears and I and Homer for one moment have much in common:
these broads keep busting our balls.
She mumbles something and I can only make out
I fumble around worse then my diction does
I pour the contents of my wallet, a measly twelve euros
into her silky smooth, bronzed hands.
She licks her plump lips and I know she is dissatisfied.
I drive off, broke, towards the prospects of Barcelona.
This mal mujer will be the last I ever see.
I wonder about fidelity for awhile,
and wonder why I left home for the first time,
I miss what is left behind.