BLACK AIR

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.


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