Bulls at the Gate

Down the dirt road
a gypsy girl,
drinks plum wine,
and envisions
that amazing chromed ’58.
A mind movie,
pornographic.
Horn rimmed bucks,
crewcut gods,
with weapons sheathed in denim.
Holding back the bulls at the gate,
they suckled at her perfumed breasts.
One bolted,
she cooed “Boy, I want to live like that.”
“Wild!”
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Filed under creative writing, micro stories, poem, poems

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