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.