The way it’s raining,
the way it’s probably going to get worse,
he plays at being a grownup for a second,
digs on being rational,
and wonders if the top on the car
really needs to be down.

The way the car tries to make
them understand that it can’t keep
making reckless turns at the last possible second
of the real-time,
beat-the-clock-to-nowhere countdown.

Gotta be responsible.
If the rush to greet the next turn
is trying to make the car out to be a nostalgic acrobat,
it’s probably not a good idea to call for another toast.

Big glasses,
so the whiskey will talk them up and then down,
but their breath and t-shirts are going to suffer
for a little while.

When they finally get around to stopping.
When five or six poetic vixens remember them fondly.

He drinks. He cheers.
There are finally too many wars going on
to make it possible to choose a side.

They might be on the streets by Friday.

Then again,
some of that hard-earned money
that’s been lost in the mail
might finally make its way home.

And no one will have to be afraid
for two,
three whole weeks.

Heroes will be met and appreciated on every street corner.
Lost souls are finally gonna stop building bridges.
Coffee will be the end of a spirit quest until 9 PM.

Almost tumbling out of the car,
and into the slick, serene streets,
he grips the edge of the top,
spills his drink again,
and doesn’t mind that he hasn’t been able
to wipe the rainwater off his glasses in twenty minutes.

The car has been treating the little things
like discarded crystal since the reckless dedication
to the present began.

And the car started on the first try
for the first time in a lot of months.

06/27/2013

Posted on 06/27/2013
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