Nigel, thinking full frontal means lobotomy
and wondering should the church oppose free sects,
walks along the highway from Ochopee.
He looks for where the tarred state road connects

to take him down to the Everglades. He sees a wind tee
and guesses where the airport intersects
the flat horizon is where he wants to be.
A Dodge Viper, kicking gravel, disconnects

him from his thoughts, and he looks in to see
a short-shorted, tank-topped driver who erects
her middle finger at him. ‘You mean me?’
he asks. ‘See any other derelicts?’

Psycho Patti pouts. ‘Do you want a ride? It’s hot?’
Her décolletage makes hot, tired Nigel mute.
He jumps into her car before he’s got
a glimpse of the Glock she points to show the route

to the Everglades. She offers him some pot
and things go well until he says, ‘You’re cute.’
Patti’s eyes pop red. She brakes, makes Nigel squat
at gunpoint and duck waddle to the boot

of the Viper and get in. She bangs it shut,
She’s sweating, knows this time she can’t be late!
She races fate to reach her swamp-edge hut.
She wonders how long alligators wait.