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
the 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
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.
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