I got out the big car, the flashy one

where your absorbed into the soul of your seat.

We turn on the black roads with no names

past road signs peppered with bullet holes

and other signs pointing each way to towns

and places somewhere to go.


The moon plasters a gray canvas like my

single headlight, beaming a path of night.


Cold and flat, suspended and smoking the

old car slips past cemeteries where we tip

our hats at the crossroads where tales of

life changing like Monday morning sheets

turns the heads each way while praying.


The road is hard as it surrenders the lost

and curious at deserted rest areas where

carved initials in picnic tables tell a story.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s