The Solid Car (from 'Ballade Noire')

The solid car rolled silently by,
smooth tin wheels
and grey tin shell.
Windows tinted with nicotine
from half-smoked cigarettes.
She tapped the fuel gauge glass
and flicked ash
into the smoky tray
beneath the out-of-season fir tree,
pine fresh fragrance
to flush the stale reek of insecurity.

She balanced on stiletto point
and slipped the car
into a less ostentatious gear.
The rolling mass sulked to a stop,
shuddered in the chilly drizzle
and came to rest outside a bar.
The neon greeting, badly looped
like her first handwriting lesson,
feigned an unconvincing welcome
then stuttered a sibilant sigh of defeat.

Salome rolled down her window
and breathed in good clear diesel fumes,
the scent of childhood
and strange machines
purring softly through the night
in the old barn.
The smell of long ago,
the dizzying musk of memory.
She cried for a simpler time,
small tears which ripened
into fat juicy fruit and fell in harvests
round her gritty knees
and washed them clean.
She opened Pandora’s box
and stepped out.

She pulled her short jacket round her
tight, like a second skin,
and braved ten steps.
In three,
she had caught the eye,
in five,
she had the rhythm of your heart,
in seven,
the rhythm took control,
in ten,
systolic shock, your heart broke
as the door closed behind her.

Salome walked into the bar and left her
leathery likeness hanging in the
damp cloak room.
She ordered two shots,
One to keep the chill out,
one to keep it in.
She scanned the booths and stools for her man,
he clung to split vinyl
as her glare tore through
the amber light of the room.
She smelt him near,
noted his brand of beer,
and stalked into the gloom.
Salome slid sideways into the seat
and stared into the eyes of the next few hours.
He reeked of sweat, blended whiskey,
and cheap hotels.
She slid her hand under the table
and produced a book,
she opened it’s gossamer pages
and sang her song.
The heavy man folded his lips in a greasy smile
as gravy ran from his chin
onto a silver platter.