She Was The Only Rose In Osiris’ Wasteland

We fly like angels through tin pan alley on wings of warbled words along trashcan roads to secret wrecks lost in the junkyards of derelict dreams. Drunk on persimmon wine I carry her down memory lane looking for derelict cars in the haze of lost America where crushed beer bottles are strewn on junkyard plantations of golden-age rust buckets. A mustang chassis catches the rain. The concentric circles of a shattered windshield are a catcher of the American dream. The hood is a seat for weary pilgrims who can’t find their way home. Lost in the purple sunset we await the gospel dawn in the backseat of a Chevy.
    She yells, “A round of stout kisses on the house!” She paints my face with lipstick until we yodel in a duet of beer-drinking songs.
     She says, “Bartender, give me a mug of barleywine strong enough to peel the paint from a 1970 Buick.”
     “But all we have is the natural light I picked up at the convenience store.”
     “Then let’s get just tipsy enough to celebrate Oktoberfest in this scrapheap.”
     “New Orleans is our Bavaria on the bayou.”
     She replies, “We may not get drunk but we are happy as possums sharing a sweet potato.”