A black Oldsmobile. Chrome tips.
Dinosaur eyes. Red leather seats;
the chariot ride for kings.
The jazz men merge through
the doors. Cigarettes pulse the black air.
The radio bebop’s and fingers tap;
white walls kiss the road.
Long nights and roads. Strange doors.
Diners flash neon. Meatloaf warms
the soul; the jukebox slips a tune.
Next town. New faces; they all look
alike. Collect calls and maybe next
month that Oldsmobile finds home.
Roger Singer 