And They Call it Puppy Love

Silently we drive, miles and miles of nothing between departure and destination. The air is shimmering between us with the heat of all that has been said and the threat of what is yet to be said. The radio is playing an oldie, Donnie Osmond crooning about Puppy Love. But puppies don’t love here and hitch hikers wouldn’t ride here preferring the desert to the sweltering hell of our demise. Tires eating highway flashing past the window, sun as bright as white. Cactus, dirt and more dirt and how these barren mounds could be called mountains escape me. I’m yearning for the lush green of eastern hills, yearning for the verdant forest that was us. The barren landscape fosters thoughts of insanity, maybe murder, could be suicide when suddenly rescue looms on the horizon. Standing guard over this asphalt ribbon an ancient, weathered, stumbling abstract of the shiny Shells, Valeros and Texacos. The flying red Pegasus on the sign long past days of flights of fancy, rusty gas pumps lying in wait for the next thirsty stranger come limping in. The old man sitting out front cracks his face wide apart in a smile of anticipation, be it company, income or both. Switching off the engine I go and open the trunk and claim my suitcase. She’s standing outside the car now, impatient to know how long I have been crazy. I kiss her cheek, pressing the keys in her hand and I tell her she’ll have to go on without me. Pleas, entreaties, anger and obscenities I stand serene watching as finally she relents pulling away in a violent rooster tail spray of gravel. The Donnie Osmond song is looping in my head. And yeah, they call it puppy love, but puppies grow up and sometimes they don’t love you anymore when they do. 

6-14-12 (c) Romo

Disclaimer: This is not about anyone. I'm exploring prose poetry. Sometimes, well quite often, we writers just make stuff up...lol.