My Best That's Not Too Hot

Ode to Blue-Haired Ladies

They drive battleships down Mopac

at eighty miles per hour,

Peeping through the window of the wheel,

Hands at ten and two above their heads.

Next to them,

I see blue birds' nests and noses,

spectacles perched atop their beatific smiles,

gnarled knuckles absently in place.

I wonder what the blue-haired ladies think,

perched on pillows

inside two-ton metal missles

hurtlling down macadam and concrete.

I've never seen a single one

look to the side, the rear,

or ever use a mirror except to plant some

artificial roses in her cheeks.

They must drive divinely guided --

For I know they don't see me;

They don't see anyone,

They don't see traffic lights

or stop signs, dogs or joggers.

They see Jesus' face I think,

and he leads them safely home

and to the store for kitty litter.

I see them humming

in their tinted, cool coccoons;

"The Old Rugged Cross"

comes in telepathic transit through my window,

powered by the fervor of habitual belief.

The blue-haired ladies fill the roads,

a great and growing flock

of souls on cruise control --

holy rollers driven by their Lord,

their Ford, their Pontifiac,

their First Church of Buick,

comfy in their leather pews;

candles burn upon the dash next to plastic

virgins grinding to the bumps.

I think the blue hair must really be

secret, complex antennae

that link little old ladies directly to God.

Otherwise, all the roads and highways

would be littered with their corpses.

I smile at that -- and I relax,

safe in my knowledge that the car ahead,

powered by a blue-haired Oldsmobile apostle,

is surely, truely

blessed.