While riding on my upper back, she whispers that she wants a Peloton.
No one will threaten her there.
Even when near death they still will not trust him.
I follow the footrace to the sun-washed crest.
Sits in his rain scented square.
He kicks up dust with his boot heels.
I watch the zigzagging contrails slice up the dark, blue sky with growing alarm.
My gypsy grandmother pokes through the rear passenger window.
The look in his eye suggests that he is on to me.
Kim Kardashian’s DeLorean skims over the frosted waves.