David-Matthew Barnes
Joyriding With Soul Singers

Yesterday, I thought I saw Chaka Khan flowing
down hill in a faded red El Dorado. Shotgun
was Aretha Franklin, decked out in a fur
trimmed leopard spotted hat that sat sassy
on her head. A rush
hour wind slipped through the open car
windows, slid across the dash, tugged
like an invisible summer string of joy. Rapture
on the radio, they belted out note after perfect
note, sang and snapped to the sultry bass
line of a hit by Prince. I pretended not to
notice them from the feet aching bus stop
where I dreamed that they gave me a lift.