THE HONEYWAGONS

Give me an eternity of this:
huddled close to you
at a small town parade
as shivering cheerleaders
lob suckers at us
from flatbed trailers.
The wrapper says
MYSTERY FLAVOR
and the mystery is how
it all turned out so well.
My cheek pouched out
with hard sugar,
I suspect blue raspberry,
as impossible as Santa
waving from the backseat
of a Cutlass convertible.
I know I don’t deserve
this—not the rain of candy,
not your love reflected
in the slow rotation
of chrome spokes,
but I am happy to roll
the sweetness of each
on my tongue. We are made
clean here, as clean
as the honeywagons
coming down the street—
their tanks scrubbed
for grand procession,
their cabins waxed
to gleam in the low sun,
a wreath and velvet ribbon
wired to each pristine grill.
Here they come! Sweetheart,
I know I am full of it,
but something redeeming
is almost here. Here it comes.