Kissed

The truck stop emerges
from the Kansas plains
as a saloon that sprouted
suddenly in an instantaneous
western town to the sound
of lively piano tunes
to stand as a brazen edifice
with its glitter in the face
of the incessant battering wind
that beat up covered wagons
and now savages eighteen wheelers
braving its onslaught in a lonely
country starved for kisses.
The wind pounds me
with a viciousness
that takes my wind
out of my staggering torso,
invisible fists landing blows
to my back, midsection,
my long suffering trucker's face
as I wade through ragged vacuums
toward the truck stop store
with its Slim Jims, Hostess Cupcakes,
coffee and public showers to step
with bare feet into the tiled
shower room where thousands
of bare feet had stood bearing
vulnerable nudity under the brutal
plumbing appropriate for
a concentration camp that scalds
or freezes depending upon
its temperament. I wonder
if there will be just one towel
provided at this truck stop,
dreading the inevitable.
The shower attendant greets me.
"How ya doin' this fine day driver?"
He's black with Morgan Freeman's face.
I'm jolted by the exuberance.
"Tired." I say.
I open the shower room door
and see two stacked fluffy towels--
one for the body
and one for the antiseptic floor --
and there is the glitter
of two Hershey's Kisses resting
atop the towels with pull tabs
fluttering in more wind blown
by a roaring fan.
The quivering pull tabs jut out
like fuses for little bombs made
to detonate little chocolate
explosions in a chocolate revolution
in the name of the chocolate god.
Disrobing, I am an inmate
with privileges. I lay out a towel
upon the cold tile floor
and step upon its softness thinking
chocolate thoughts.
Shall I have a Kiss? No.
Maybe later, I'll leave the Kisses
as ornamentation of my incarceration.
I'll just let them kiss me
as I turn the knob for whatever
water emerges from the shower head
pointed at me as a barrel of a gun.
There are red and blue arrows
pointing the way to hot and cold water
but first water is always cold.
Then the choice seems to be cold
and cold until the knob
p*ss twisted with some violence to get the
steaming substance to emerge without
regard to the red and blue arrows.
There is soap scented with "Spring."
I lather briskly wanting to lift a curse
from my skin, to feel clean in this
haunted place and it's concentration camp
atmosphere where all the pitiful nudity
had stood, the pot bellies,
the sagging breasts, the stumps
of water retentive legs with
bleeding sores, cellulite thighs
and buttocks all connected
to chocolate thoughts.
Oh yes! I'm being kissed! Euphoria!
Suddenly I'm dancing
my version of the Rumba,
then it's the tribal dance
of the Cherokee Nation,
then I'm in social dance class
in the sixth grade.
One - two, cha-cha-cha,
three-four, cha-cha-cha.
One - two, cha-cha-cha,
three-four, cha-cha-cha.
I lather into the whiteness
of the abominable snowman,
lather, lather, scrub, scrub --
all to feel reborn.
Enough. It's over. I rinse and soak
in a cloud of steam.
I step out on the precious soft towel
and lift the body towel
and lo and behold!
Five more Hershey's Kisses
fall out upon the countertop
like live hand grenades
ready for action.
Shall I pull a tab? No.
I dress, shave, brush my teeth,
comb my hair. I see myself
in the mirror -- glowing but
unchanged.
The Hershey's Kisses glitter --
an arsenal of chocolate.
Shall I pull a tab? No, I won't.