Leda And The Twinkies Truck

                        –Chihuahua, Mexico

 

At first she didn’t notice

the love-struck Twinkies truck

as she walked back to her casa after class

carrying purse and books, maybe

the only blonde in a two-mile radius.

Then she noticed that the same truck

had passed her several times and now

was edging closer, moving slower, sidling almost

alongside. She walked faster, turned

a corner off the main road, not in the direction

of home, hoping the truck would stay the other course.

But, tilting wildly, then waddling its way upright,

it careened behind her. She turned again,

the opposite way. The Twinkies truck bolted,

twirled, and came trundling after, like a chest

of drawers in heat, over a curb, onto a sidewalk

and through a lawn whose zinnias it crushed—

Leda sprinting now through an unknown

neighborhood, the truck pursuing, chuffing,

expelling musk like a latter-day, corpulent god!

Suddenly, as if by providence, she came to a ravine

with no way over but a footbridge, which she took.

Glancing back as she raced away, Leda saw

the Twinkies truck, halted at the gully’s edge,

its shoulders heaving and slumping.

If the truck had caught her, Leda wondered,

had its way with her, would she have gone back home

with godly gifts—say, boxes and boxes of Twinkies?

 

 

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