Crushed Ice Polished Chrome

and just like Steve McQueen
you call me 
after you have
killed the bourbon
running every
red light
driving yourself
desperately to avoid me
plotting how
to grasp me
staying one day too long
leaning against my
couch scraping
two-day old skin from
the front of your teeth
and it’s always the same dream
I wake-up with my hips heavy
on top of yours
foot down on the gas
driving backward
the hand holding
me back locked hard but I
wrap myself around
its grasp
both blessed always cursed
with my addiction.

Nikki Lockhart