road trip

By Shelly Lyons

pressure building steadily,
halfway through my 2nd cup of caffeine, 
nervously watching miles slowly tick by 
until the Virginia rest stop

jerk open top button 
in hopes that more space
will keep bladder from bursting,

friendly patches of asphalt,
inside diagonal lines
welcome me to the state, 
pop open car door, keys in hand,
lock and slam in one smooth motion,

speed walk past huge
yank open the heavy glass door, 
make a beeline for the women’s room,
still fresh and clean
at this early hour just past sunrise, 
gleaming white toilet, seat propped open,  
sweet zipper melody, followed by 
fast yank down of pants and undies,
lower expectantly onto cool plastic,
hot release forcefully flows, 
falls freely, 
swirling into the cold water,
our essences mixing
almost as good 
as an orgasm,
pulsing stream of liquid, 
warm smooth freedom

after-glow accompanies me to the parking lot,
I take a moment to joyfully stretch and bend,
smile at passersby and the morning sky
before folding myself down onto the car seat,
basking in the sweet relief 
of my empty bladder. 

Shelly Lyons is a writer and teacher from North Carolina. She has been a life-long writer who’s especially partial to poetry and short stories but is now working on her first novel. She’s had a variety of poems and articles published both online and in print through the years.

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