New Jersey Necrophiliac

Afterwards

she rubs his bare chest

like it's a brass lamp

with a genie inside

though no wishes will be granted

to either party.

The smell of her perfume's reminiscent 

of the purple pew upholstery

in a Southern Baptist church

sending his mind 

to a highway rest stop in Maine

four years ago.

He'd scratched his face 

there in the bustling lobby

and his right hand

which had ridden a perfect thigh

in the passenger seat for hours

had the lingering scent

of elderly black women

in a state he'd never visited

and had never wanted to.

He'd finished draining himself

in front of foreign porcelain

alongside a dozen strangers

whom, Lord willing, he'd never see again

among poorly tiled walls and floors

or even the Pearly Gates

and was staring blankly

at undesirable food franchise logos

barely appetizing, in neon or not

when a familiar face appeared

within a crowd of other women

emerging from their corner

of the summer vacation ring.

There it was

her countenance

like the full moon

that keeps him awake these days

ready to get back in the car together

and share a bag of Skittles

he'd bought from a vending machine

more friendly than a teenager

in a greasy polo shirt

while waiting on

what he thought

was the rest of his existence

Bar Harbor merely one destination

of many for decades--

"'til death do you part."

"Can we go again?" 

"Maybe," he mumbles

his mind nine hours northeast.

She continues to paw

the urn that is his ribcage

not feeling the ashes within

and attempts years too late

to light another match.