He arises, face contorted, beaded with the dew
of perverse, indulgent, libidinous pleasure.
She turns to him, a fleeting moment of lucidity,
intuits his next move, rolls away from
pendulous protuberance now throbbing
to perpendicular threat, he spins, scream of
maniacal monstrosity at defiance, she stills.
He smiles, a satanical smile of such sardonic spirit,
and suddenly pins her beneath him, probes powerfully,
impales her moistness with potent thrusts
of immeasurable prolificacy; she responds,
she clamps his thrashing torso to her breast,
lifts her hips to the thunderous assault, pleads
for his release, her voice denying her fervid
aversion to provision of fertile fruit,
ripened for future fulfillment of prophecy.
He shudders violently, discharging infernal seed
with each impending, incoherent impact of body
against body, soul against soul, mind against mind,
hellish shrieks echoing from the heavens to the
far-reaching pits of a hell beyond the imagination
of mortal man's insipid, prosaic consciousness.
He stands, a finger tracing the belly which is now
a mere vessel for the diabolic denizens of hell,
looks into her eyes, vacant, but awash with new
understanding of the reality of a living hell.
Without a word, he turns, and is gone.

Light in her eyes died
years ago, along with the love,
but in her wounded framework
lived a spark, tiny, weak, but
about to ignite.
A few steps to the door,
down the steps into the garage,
half-empty can of gasoline drew
her attention, the spark breathed deeply.

High octane fuel making criss-cross
designs across his body, a perimeter
poured as a simple precaution.
She flipped the match onto the balled-up
twentieth-year anniversary quilt beneath his
comatose form, stepped to the front door,
opened it, walked out, and
never looked back.

Well, maybe just once,
a light now flickering in her eyes.

Quiet now, no longer breathing thick plumes of smoke, its lifeless body
lay in wait, silent, helpless, no longer operational.

Hear the deep-throated bellow of the Jake as Number Fourteen tow truck
rounds the bend and shuts down; Kenworth recovery unit.

#2 diesel courses through the veins of the 335 Cummins that propels her,
rescuer of grounded over-the-road hard-running rigs.

Five gears in the main, and four auxiliary, her glistening frame trembles with
the fury of turbo-charged prepotency lying in readiness.

She's a wide-nosed conventional, with a sleeper for those extra long missions
when man and equipment feel time crawl.

Carrying a 750 Holmes wrecker body, twin-line, twin boom, on a West Coast body,
she's rated for a forty-thousand-pound load capacity.

Now men scurry, ant-like, setting up hazard signs, surveying the scene, making
the determination of where best to exert pressure, attach lines and chains.

After hours of digging, placing cable and hook with knowing hands and willing hearts,
exhaling frosty breath in the crisp, clean air, they turn to Fourteen.

Twin stacks roar as the PTO engages, Fourteen dancing under the strain,
and, in slow motion, the lifeless rig begins to lift, infinitesimally, inch by inch.

Fourteen groans under the load, her iron crying for deliverance, and as if
in answer to her prayer, the massive leaden body slowly tips up, settles upright.