Black curls and cognition

It was three ten on a Monday afternoon in August
And I was lumbering down Georgia Eighty-five
Back home to Griffin from Columbus
And the hot, dry desert heat was unusual
Not the sun beating down on my thinning hair
But the lack of moisture, drawing the raw ammonia of sweat
Popping up in little pinpricks on my arms and scalp
Making misery of the sweetness sometimes found in Summer
Suavely masked behind my sly sunglasses
So perfectly chosen to cover the day's weariness
From my age and a stomach full of barbecue on a hot afternoon

When from beyond my right shoulder
Spinning up from below and behind
Like a whirl in the flow of the drift of things,
A rift in the run of material
Of that river of sweet blackness
Spinning up smoothly from below my tires
Sweetness itself, sliding along
Coming alongside me, frozen in the ice cream cool
In a wink of quick cognition:
Black,black curly locks framing
A sharp smirk of a profile and deep red lips
And her soul locked behind those cheap sunglasses
Which sit primly propped amid the unfairness or indifference
And youth.

And there her car sped off into the future beyond
Leaving me alone in my heavy plodding rumble
My past pushed before me like the prow of a merchant ship
Pulling the lines of age across my face
Dragging my path too deep below the present current
She is lost now in the stirring of memories
And buried in the eternity of wishing,
A sad, sad reminder and a signpost to present inadequacies
And the cut of irrelevancy.