Even though the street lights
are too weak to illuminate
the places where the road has fallen in on itself,
I can see the bends in black and white
as I bite down again on a half eaten toothpick
and tongue the winter chap
starting to bleed where road speed and
wind speed conspired to flay.
I rest my arms on the headset, crossed,
while greased horn bells and timpanis play
noir diner small talk behind my nose and eyes and
David Lynch whispers sweet nothings
to the tune.
Some day you'll find the one
who doesn't care where you've been and
where you're going
with the same abandon you've put into forgetting.
I close my eyes and
let the silver bones slip and
as the brakes go and my feet clip
I blow a kiss to the stars above and see
how long it takes to cream
before the road turns
to river water again.
