Now that we've sobered up
we grab our keys and drive.
Hit these headlight parades
as if we have somewhere better to go
we stop and fill up where little hitchhikers, scurrying, chase
after the vacancy signs
duct-taped to our license plates
we won't keep
these crumpled receipts
The gathering road becomes a yellow blur of fickle faces,
dotted lines
to nowhere
everywhere
No comments:
Post a Comment