Waiting for the lights to change
I consider the lady behind me
in my rear view mirror—
she steers an asthma inhaler
to her lips, sucking on it
for an epoch, as if she's kissing
her lover, her eyes open at half mast.

I pull on my cigarette, and
blow a ribbon of smoke
through my opened car window;
several molecules of hydrocarbons
tumble towards her car.
Her air conditioner sucks and
exhales out of her vents.
She breathes me in ...

I slip into her lungs, bouncing
between fingers of cilia,
sliding over pink epidermis;
tap dancing like Ginger Rogers
up and down her thorax.
When she gasps, I drift
unnoticed into the sky. She
drops the inhaler from her mouth,
tucking it into her purse,
darting her eyes back and forth
looking for guilty voyeurs.
The light changes. She turns left,
I go right.