we were on rt 6...

tires tearing up the road and
turning it to flame.
our terrible mouths moving
unceasingly talking all kinds
of madness.
saying a lot but saying
very little at all.
Gorganea Secundia
peers in from the moonroof
accusingly. They are the eyes
of my father staring
into the passenger side
seat. All is well with
the world. Tomorrow
the sun will rise and
greet our backs.

For now we're carving
lines into the road.
80 miles per hour and
going nowhere. Strings
play over the radio and
all is well with the world.
We'll hit the light where
rt 6 collides with rt 29.
Yellows, reds, and greens
whirl across your face setting
freckles to fire.

"you dress like poetry," i say.

the light is red. I beg it
to stay that way forever.
this is as good as it's
ever going to get.
this is the last red light
I ever want to see.

the light turns green.

and we tear down rt 29
the lights around the foundry
carve through the fog.

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