The mechanic at the Chevron
on Seventeenth Street asks me
to two step to Boot Scootin’ Boogie
while he waits for his dance partner.

I really want to line dance,
but it’s the least I can do
since he fixed my flat
on the freeway on Friday.

As I’m walking off the floor,
the Ford dealership salesman
in the silk suit takes me for a spin
for the first time since a stiletto 

stabbed me in the instep as we
rounded the corner and collided
with his ex and he got the restraining
order after carrying me to his Camaro.

Just as he plops me in the folding chair,
the tall cowboy in silver sideburns
Levi’s and Stetson hat and boots 
ducks his head under the doorway.

He’s a rich Wyoming rancher
who’s here to find a new wife
and mother for his seven children,
the word vibrates on the vine.

The divorcees and widows, all gussied
up in panty hose and flared skirts,
hunting for husband number two or three,
hold in their sagging stomachs and breath,

hoping he’ll whisk them around the floor
and across the state line, except me. I’m
enjoying the cool air blowing from the vents,
the music blaring on the record player

and watching him inspecting us like livestock
at an auction and testing out selected mares 
as they prance and trot around the room tossing
their manes and parading their pedigrees.

Since I am not qualified for the position
with two jobs and an invalid mother,
I drag my dentist out on the dance
floor as Conway croons Crazy in Love. 

His dentures clicking to the beat
of the music, we waltz and jitterbug
until the rancher rides off into the moonlight
in his Chevy Silverado with his intended.
                        

Mango mingles with maple
in my mouth as she says Michael
is the man I am going to marry.

Are you sure? I savor the sugary
swirling strawberry. In the spring
it was Stephen. She tastes bananas

and butterscotch. I left him
for Larry. I swallow a spoonful 
of scrumptious pumpkin cheesecake.

But then I met Michael and I knew... 
She relishes the raspberry ribbon 
until she munches the almond honeycomb.

What happened to Henry? I ask. Who?
She drops her spoon and makes a beeline
for the bulging biceps holding a blast. 

You like blueberries? His voice is deep.
She licks his spoon. What’s your name?
He says Brian and she says I’ll take you.

Before I can ask: What about Michael?
she is sashaying into the sunlight
with her new flavor of the month,

but I am too content to care as papaya
and pineapple join in wedded bliss
on the altar of my tongue.