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January 23, 2023

In the Trunk

By Sand Pilarski

I have a cushion at my back
And it is firm and thick.
A dented fender leaves a crack
So fumes don't make me sick.

A winding wayside has no lure,
No scenic town appeals
To my instincts which have no cure
For their preferred meals.

It's only once in a month or so
I get these morbid urges
That's when my husband makes me go
In the trunk
When the mood swing surges.

He drives me to the countryside
Despite my frothing mouth
And takes me on this darkened ride
Into the toothsome south.

In the dim trunk I ruminate
About the meal to come
I think of past repasts I ate
And how they filled my tum.

What will I eat? What will I eat?
I see the diner's glow
It will be salty, hot, and sweet
And greasy, this I know.

I hear my husband tell the clerk
To give me what I crave
And not to mind me when I lurk,
A waiter as my slave.

Hash browns, grits and hot French toast,
With bacon on the side!
Bring seconds when I need them most
And bring me more stuff fried!

Then sated, ten pounds heavier,
I crawl back in the car;
My husband drives me home again
A victor of my war.

The carbs, the salt, the sugar, too,
All fell before my might.
My marriage could have ended, true --
But Hubby knows this night.

At times a woman has to glom
On carbohydrate junk
Or become a walking time bomb
Who should climb in the trunk.

My doctor says it's bad for me
But he's a foolish skunk
Once in a month or so to be
In the trunk
Oh, to be in the trunk.

Article © Sand Pilarski. All rights reserved.
Published on 2007-04-02
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