This road is a prison area
the exercise yard i use at night
inside this car, this Swedish sphere
where everything is round: the curve
of earth the tires worry,
my uneasy ass upon his seat,
the instruments that tell me nothing.
I stop for the hitchhiker.
I never listen to warnings.
Maybe i want a man who's known
the darkness of oily rain on asphalt.
If he's clear and the devil, am I light escaping?
The car rushes on toward salvage
as we struggle to tell the difference.
Find poetry at
Click to find more inspiration at Amazon