a question in traffic (not a train poem, but rather a cube poem)

In a childish voice
With everything burning
Rubber, oil, gasoline
Some tunneling pinch
Wrench on nerve
Pliers pulling layers back
Sitting there
On a giant plush toy
A little nymph
All eyes
Except for smile
Both distracting

For the reason we came
To discover gold
Or better yet
Some precious elixir
Opens up the cavity
To all the light in the world
Blinding and stinky
Particulates, toxins, wavy air
Relax in this
Bask in this
Hold it down in this

The same girl
Who rides magic
Like silver surf
Fluffs the pillows
Changes the sheets
Closes the blinds
Prays for an answer
Sutured back up
Holding a cup of juice
Not really knowing if it's a juice she likes
Kneels on the carpet
Straightens up the toys
Waiting for some blissful nap
Where all opened up
With the right cohorts
The question quelled

"will he cook
be romantic
make a burrito of her in the sheets?"
--
2.7.08