Driving with the top down
in the 1965 fire-engine-red Mustang,
Freddie and I were well on our way
to the sun soaked beach in St. Pete.
His long black locks flowed in the wind
as the engine revved to reach the peak
of the long bridge breaking apart the beach
from the Bay. Slivers of silver water sparkled
as we reached the highest point,
Freddie yelled out in his iconic voice with
pure joy, ready to get the day started.
Downtown approached, the ‘Stang slowed,
fat-bottomed girls rolled by on their bicycles.
Local stores bearing bright neon signs
lined streets all along the path towards the Gulf.
Street lights ahead flashed to yellow one by one,
putting us under pressure, “Another one bites the dust!”,
Freddie yelled as he floored it through
four intersections. Bleach white sand
straight ahead. Street performers up and down
the boardwalk, Flash Gordon juggling chainsaws.
I picked out a perfect spot to park the fireball car,
and we trudged through the sand
searching for the sea. Freddie dropped his
spare leotard somewhere back in the parking lot,
“The show must go on” I said and kept walking.
Hot. My feet sank further into the sand with every
step. Freddie seemed to prance on top of
the grains as if he weighed nothing.
The sun was starting to set, I looked over to
Freddie, he’s my best friend, I’d trust him
to find me somebody to love. Freddie
ran into the water, arms high up above his head,
and yelled “We are the champions!” as the sun
quickly slipped below the shimming shore.