Marilyn

Marilyn
 We are riding in a foot-smelling bus,thirteen blonde girls and me.
The girls? Chubby, but pretty,
like Marilyn Monroe.
Outside the bus? Snow.
The television kind of snow. Electronic.
Maybe too busy for real snow.
“I want sex,” I tell the nearest Marilyn.
“You’re old,” she replies.
Outside the bus, the snowfall shafts by in a new direction,
insensitive, otherworldly.
We are headed to a bad end
and the Kennedy’s are to blame.

--Mitchell Hegman