what happened to what's her name?

whatever happened to what's
her name, she says,
while
washing her little red
sports car in front of
the house. the hose
is in her hand,
with a bucket of suds
at her sandals. it reminds
me of that scene
in cool hand luke.

who?
I say, sitting on
the porch, looking up
from the paper as she leans
onto the car,
scrubbing
the hood in her daisy dukes.

you know, that woman
that lived here for
a few months, Sheila, or
Betty, that jezebel
you were seeing for awhile.

oh come on, you know.

string bean, lanky
sad kind of girl
with the haystack hair.
big pair of oversized
glasses
hiding her face.
she seemed terribly
depressed. always carrying
four giant handbags
on her shoulder.

oh, her.
I have no idea.

I watch as
she sprays the windshield
with water, having it bounce
back onto her white
t shirt, soaking her.

I clear my throat, cross
myself and try
to think of baseball.

I think she went back
to her ex husband,
or married boyfriend, or
her mother's basement.
out of sight, out of mind,
she disappeared.
packed her few
belongings and adios.

by the way,
you know you missed
a spot
on the door. right down there,
no there, lean
towards the tire.

there, you got it.
don't forget the bumpers.