So this thick yuckapuck
is trying to pick up chicks
on the Cross Island Parkway,
car windows down on both sides,
waving and whistling as he
weaves from lane to lane
in a nondescript family sedan,
hoping to connect at high speed.
What’s his game plan?
Is he calling for phone numbers,
or just desperate for eye contact?
Is he hoping for a roadside quickie
in the bushes around La Guardia,
or dreaming of a starter bungalow,
complete with kids and cats,
somewhere out in Syosset?
We lose him at the Throgs Neck,
just after a dark-haired girl
in a recent model sports car
(parental purchase, probably)
rolls down her window,
but refuses to look at him;
she wants to hear his pitch,
but will listen safely,
eyes on the road,
hands at the ten and the two.
We discuss such audacious desperation,
until we’re startled by a motorcyclist
standing up on the seat of his bike,
doing 90 miles per hour or more
on the way to the Tappan Zee,
his girlfriend racing along behind him,
signaling her approval with
short, sweet toots of her horn.