the ride was worth the whisper
mile markers passed by at a rate
generally reserved for a centrifuge holding vials
her hand holding the steering wheel
and the other holding a bottle
the car holding the road
my hand holding my hat
me holding my breath
a boy holding a sign, and
the sun holding
the sky
and
her lips
held a secret
a secret worth the whisper
fuck me. talk about layers. you reminded me of a moment in my 68 chevelle, drunk, stoned and hormonally challenged, with friends on a quartermile of black ice.
ReplyDeletewe were prepared to die as others sought to deliver living.
ahem, but that is just me. sorry.
deh