Trailer Park Love

We played Mount Olympus
south of that broken ramble
called home, wolfing down
spam sandwiches,
filling our heads with
postcard cities, nutritious pics
for the cerebrally starved.
The only names we knew
were Venus and Hercules,
the ones from the comic book,
but we'd never see Athens.
Once a year, we stroll down
some honky-tonk boardwalk
bathed in shocking pink, neon
as bright as her lips, kisses
wild cherry and greasy.
Still wondering why,
still together,
we lay in the back of her

beaten up Lexus,
arm in arm, she sleeps
in this sad state called September,
half clad in Jaguar print.
I contemplate our underwear
twisted together
on a head rest,
and realize death
will be my exit off
Route 66.