We’re at a celebration of sex in sedans.
There are champagne fountains with glass angels on top,
whose wings are feathers from South America,
where doves rise like a cloud,
and some become food and others, decoration.
“Sex in Sedans,” the banner reads.
The wine is chilled and the made-up angels
sit atop the fountain
blessing us, the lovers.
We’ve been lucky.
Some have screwed sprawled out on the hoods of sedans
or balled up in the confines of the trunks;
and some have made love while the sedans were moving
full-speed down country roads
with rocks and clay
kicking up into the air. Somebody,
pull our bodies apart.
Let us walk away.