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Carwash

I love the iridescent tricolor slime

that squirts all over my Honda in random

yet purposeful patterns as I sit in the semi-

dark of the "touch-free" carwash with you.

Listening to the undercarriage blast, I think,

"Love changes and will not be commanded."

I smile at the long flesh-colored tentacles waving

at us like passengers waving good-bye.

Water isn't shaped like a river or ocean;

it mists invisibly against metal and glass.

In the corridor of green unnatural lights

recalling the lunatic asylum, how can I

defend myself against what I want?

Lay your head in my lap. Touch me.

By Henri Cole