'49 Merc

Long.
Chopped and raked.
Black metallic.
Evil.
It growled
Across the intersection
Its frame lit
In purple light.

Sinister.

I fell in behind it
Noting its plate
Bright in the gloom
SATAN 1.

It was a translation

Of a ’49 Merc.
It slithered rather than rolled.
Every window tinted black.
Four chrome pipes jutted
From each side
Blue flame
Whispering from each port.

There are moments when feeling

Is the dominate sense.
The wise man knows
When to obey his gut.

I pulled beside him at the light
And rolled my window down
Indicating the driver
Of the ’49 Merc
Do the same.

In a moment

His window hissed down.

I looked into the face

Of the fool behind the wheel.
He tilted his head in question
Wanting to know the reason
For the interruption.

I’d been eating an apple

When I’d noticed the ’49 Merc.
All that was left was the core
Which I tossed like a grenade
Onto his buttery leather seats.
His eyes flared in malevolence.

You can have your apple back

I said.

 

Then I turned right
At the light.