Leda And The Twinkies Truck
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?