In Transit

She's popping her gum the whole time
I'm driving her across town, her,
her sleeping bag and her stereo
her collection of Good Will clothes
her Who records, her Kiss records
her Grateful Dead posters and
her collector's items, one
original soundtrack recording
of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

She's popping her gum, beating out a rhythm
She's tired she says of squares and I'm
driving her across town to the new family
she says she wants to live with, including
twin Great Danes, six cats (one Burmese)
an antique bathtub with running cold water
overhead bromeliads, hanging incense burners
and genuine Sufi dancing
every other Friday night.

She's singing a song in her mellowest
Linda Ronstadt voice while
I'm driving her across town, wondering
how's she going to make it without
six showers a day, thirty dollars a month
in asthma medicine (she's allergic
to dogs, cats, horses, and once we discovered
at Disneyland, elephants) not to mention
my Spanish shawl and Marcel Rochas Femme.

She's singing a song in her gutsiest Janis Joplin
" Baby, it's the woman in you makes you do like you do"
popping her gum, beating out the rhythm
and I'm driving her across town thinking
Hey! it's going to be Mozart and Bach again
clean towels and a little shampoo
left in the bottle, the phone
without a hassle and my high heel shoes
in the closet exactly where I left them.

She's popping that gum, singing that sexy song
" Baby, it's the woman in you makes you play those games"
I'm flying down the freeway, squinting, but
it's not the sun that's bothering my eyes
I'm swallowing hard and thinking to myself
Baby, how come there's all this little girl in you
makes you hurt the way you do? not singing
not popping gum or beating out the rhythm
just driving like sixty and biting my tongue.