she watches as the racers roar and spit fire
round and round the track, grimaces, notices
the guy in the leather vest and harley t-shirt
staring at the gap of her sleeveless cotton blouse
with the tea rose print where she's showing a sliver of tit.
her husband, sitting on the splintery bleachers
twenty rows below her, so absorbed in the action
on the track, doesn't notice that she left her seat
beside him half an hour before.
she smiles at the guy and he saunters over,
leans in close. she smells the miller highlife
on his breath as he whispers in her ear.
she nods and mouths a trembling ok,
and follows him out into the darkest corner
of the parking lot, climbs into the back
of his black primered econoline van.
her husband hollers and pumps his fist
as the racecars thunder past the checkered flag,
downs the last two ounces of his beer
and looks at the empty seat beside him,
wondering just how long it could possibly take
for a woman to hit the restroom or fetch him
another beer. and she's missing all the action.
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