We come from where women fistfight
Four against none. We are passionate about blimps.
The parking lot
Of the In-N-Out Burger drunk and mock lit:
Four adorable girls and I crush no one’s teeth
To the green curb. We wolfpack the takeaway tray. A blimp could end this
Curb-stomping. We could stop,
Rubberneck back, and O if a leaning blimp
Would moon through this Reno-Sparks AM
Thick with the thump of half-neckpunch,
Half-I-love-you. The idea of a blimp is thick in us.
Only a blimp will do.
We wait. We can’t wait.
We fiend the newness of Levi’s and blimps that don’t show.
We hurricane inside and thumb murals of packet-mustard
Upon our foreheads. Then, as if from outer space,
A mini-blue hand-fan buzzing in each fist, a naked man
Drifts in as if not naked, banks a soft-left at the restrooms,
Hovers before the register,
And orders a root-beer float from the secret menu.