“Let me drive.”

by Gianna Russo

(after Billy Collins)

You are the French pedicure and the bell-like laugh,
you are the Bridge of Lions and the Bijou sale.
You are the right answer on the Hamlet exam
and the Petrarchan sonnet’s rhyme scheme.
You are the baked brie at the bistro
and the expensive chardonnay.

However, you are not the night train through Winter Park,
the orange blossom honey on the Pier One plate
or the senior presentation on STD’s.
And you are certainly not the low-carb special at Hooters.
Everyone knows you wouldn’t even step foot in Hooters.

It is possible you are the olive oil under the baguette, 
maybe even the lovebug on the Mercedes,
but you are not even close to being
the wrist corsage after prom night.

And a short step to the detention room will show
you are neither the lace bras on clearance at Target
nor the two-for-one No-Doze at K-mart.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the rampant metaphors of our state,
that I am the watersprinkler on a non-watering day.

I also happen to be the tourist looking at knick-knacks in Micanopy,
the car that has a flat outside of Starke
and the side orders on the menu in Wimauma.

I am also the plastic wine glasses at the writers’ reception
and the pecan roll at Stuckeys.

But have no fear, I am not the Doppler radar in September.       
You are the Doppler radar in September,
and you will always be central air in August,
the hair-flip of the winning poet, as well as,—but, of course—
that laugh.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GIRLFRIEND!