Now I'm getting into something I like.
It's not that good a poem, but I just like one word in it.
You have to figure out which one.
"Disregard."
"Overhead the match burns out, but the chunk
of ice in the backseat keeps melting from imagined heat,
while the old Hudson tiptoes up the slope.
My voile blouse so wet it is transparent like one frightened
hand clutches my chest.
The bag of rock salt sprawled beside me
wakes thirsty and stretches the shaky tongue toward the ice.
I press the gas pedal hard.
I'll get back to the house, the dirt yard, the cesspool, to you
out back digging a well you could fill with your sweat.
Though there is not one reason I should want to.
You never notice me until the end
of the day, when your hand is on my knee and the ice
cream cooked to broth is hot enough
to burn the skin off my touch."