Originally published in Planet Magazine No. 36 (December 2002).
I’m thinking of drinking when Sally struts in,
her spike-heels ringing,
her rear-guard swinging,
and I blink at her devil grin.
Now Sal’s my best pal and I like her a lot,
but she puts on a show,
with her bounce and her glow.
Don’t think she don’t know what she’s got.
“Hey Boozer, you loser!” she squeals in my face.
“Did you look at the boards?
We’re signed with Sigord’s-
we’re running the Ganymede race!”
Half the bar, mouth ajar, is still fixed on her hips;
but I ain’t so randy
for human-type candy,
and I don’t like the name she let slip.
“That ain’t funny, honey!” I whine. Then I sigh,
“Sigord’s a rat-trap,
one step up from scrap.
We’ll have to glue wings on to fly.
“We’ll run suited and booted; they won’t pop for air.
Half the crew’s tin,
there won’t be no gin.
I can’t survive sober out there!”
“Jeez, such a wheeze,” she laughs at my frown.
“Like you could refuse it.
You know, win or lose it,
you ain’t gonna stay on the ground.”
Now Sal’s no think-link, but she sees through my talk.
Me? Hang on dirtside?
I’d end up stir-fried.
I’d rather suck vacuum than walk.
Poem © 2002 by Nancy Wilcox
Artwork © 2002 by Ehrad
