The Hitchhiker
No time like the present,
she said,
wished yesterday revolved,
wishing upon the thing
as the oil spilled forth
dark and rich,
congealing in her hands
like sin.
The time was for the taking,
the day eaten by night.
A still, arched moon
breathed out
against the howling wind,
like a curse.
She stood guard over it,
her own body,
and the soul caged –
its remnants –
as the car turned
like a hearse.
“Are you going my way?”
she asked the profile,
flicking a smile,
opening her hands,
clean, so bare,
like innocence.
Twisted is the way that
I am,
she said,
not so long ago
to the last passer-by,
like a game.
This one has a crazy air,
a dark wildness,
flicks back his hair,
spits in the dirt,
curses this old life,
like a reject.
In her hands she carries it
all, despairing,
slipping into the car
too close to him,
offering a smile,
like a child.
But the demon inside her
rages hot and cold,
eager to howl,
translucent as this moon.
In a moment she’ll snap
like hell itself.
No time like the present,
she said.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone. Mind-spinning Rainbows. Published April 18, 2015.
