That day arrived when my Wrangler was delivered, the green Sahara with trail cloth seats and a kickin’ sound bar. Top down 10 months out of the year and we were in drought there in South Carolina. This was the drive that defined me and I would play Santana level ten, red hair flyin’ in the wind, burnt orange lipstick, darkest of dark sunglasses, singing at the top of my alto voice, screamin’ when it screamed, crying when it wept, and dancing at the lights. “We saw you yesterday on Harbison Boulevard,’ he said with an indulgent grin. “Ah,” said I, and was I singing?” They smirked and did not reply. “Too bad about that rod,” I said privately, digging in my purse for the keys and skipping on my merry way.
A blistering sun
Carolina skies deep blue
Straight on in the wind
Tramps Like Us are writing Haibuns over at dVerse! Join us for some fun!