ride

the miles of black top are strung out
between static and all night christian radio.
preacher man howls like a coyote.
high beams slide across the barren
shoulders of tumble weeds and yuccas.
jack rabbits play kamikaze
trying to sink this old battleship.
There's a .38 in the glove box lost among
the maps, looking for blood to spill.
a lullaby hides in the hum of the radials
and the night strokes my hair through
the cranked open window;
if I live long enough I'll sleep through my death




.