portion of the artwork for Mindela Ruby's poetry

Six Track
Mindela Ruby

It’s not just getting out for the night
Not just her mom at last babysitting
It’s not the widescreen picture
Not just warm hands laced in the dark
(acting like sweethearts again, or trying)
It’s not just back-burnered longing
Not only salty buttered popcorn
It’s not one single factor
Accounting for this rare arousal
Not even the six track speakers
Subwoofing all around them
Every living pore in her alert to
The whooshing soundtrack
The insect buzz
The primal drumbeat
The human yowls
A distant rumble
Six tracks drowning out
The stress of an ailing child
The rent rise
A car repair
She transmogrifies
Into a jungle vindicator
Something’s bound to happen        out here!
She’s slumped in a theater seat
Playing Fingers in flickering murk
With a man she
Barely knows despite him being
The father of her son a man who
Truth be told the last two years
Proved himself to be
Anything but
What A Kid Obviously Needs
So she deems them a watch-out item
A thrash-about couple
In a thicket
Mr. and Ms. though for how long?
Ears bombarded
Knuckles locked

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 53 | Spring/Summer 2019