The Greyhound, The Vixen, The Indian, and I

So I’m on a Greyhound heading west
And my eyes are badly glazed;
And my mind is numb from boredom,
And my thoughts are turning crazed.

Then the bus pulls into Gallup
To let people come on board.
Then, down the aisle, a vision flows
And I’m no longer bored.

A woman in her twenties
With full and pouting lips,
With a vixen’s face and body
And gently swaying hips.

She picks the seat in front of mine
And turns, with toss of hair,
But not before her eyes meet mine
And I feel there’s something there.

Later on, the bus is dark,
For day has turned to night.
We’re crossing through the desert
When I’m stunned to see the sight

Of slender fingers slipping through
The space beside her seat,
And come to rest upon my knee
As though promising me a treat.

Now a young man’s raging hormones
At times can’t be controlled.
And this was one occasion
That called for action bold.

I moved to sit beside her
And without a single word,
We let our passion run its course
Aroused and fully stirred.

And you might think that this is where
I end this lengthy tale,
But events that soon would follow
Caused our previous ones to pale.

For unbeknownst to both of us
Our Passion Play was seen
By an older man across the aisle
Who took in every scene.

Now the old guy was an Indian,
A Navajo, I’d guess.
And I think that our gyrations
Induced his horniness.

‘Cause he stood up on drunken legs
And, in manner far from meek,
He reached into the seat ahead
And stroked a woman’s cheek.

From the woman came a banshee’s wail.
Greyhound squealed to sliding stop.
The lights came on; the driver cursed;
Started acting like a cop.

He took reports from all aboard
And that included us.
And when we reached a truck stop;
Threw the Indian off the bus.

And with the truck stop’s neons
Splashed like war paint ‘cross his face,
He staggered through the parking lot
In a state of fallen grace.

And when the bus had pulled away
The girl and I resumed
Our trip through burning passion
With which we were consumed.

Then somewhere near the border
With passion nearly spent
I took some time to dwell upon
That poor old Indian gent.

And I saw it as another case,
As Injustice sat and laughed,
Where the white man got the gravy,
While the Indian got the shaft.

Copyright 2008 - phil cerasoli