Road Trip

     
     
     
     
     
Took to the long road      
windows rolled down      
hard hot breaths      
of dry wind filling the      
lungs, beating the skin      
     
The unkempt road boasting      
cracks and potholes became      
a canvas for the scenery      
as weeds popped their      
heads out through cracks      
a group hallelujah to the heavens      
A worship to the hot burning sun      
     
There is something wonderful      
about weeds growing through      
concrete. An honest freedom. A risky dare      
to the authority that could have      
them killed for no reason other      
than their geographic stance      
While the sun almost melts their      
soft leaves to the tarmac that      
begs for the nutriance of the      
liquid in photosynthesis      
Their posture retains it's      
confidence and strength.      
     
The blonde in the passenger seat      
using the heated wind to style      
her nylon like whips of hair      
beat the headrest of that      
seat like a merciless viking      
flogging a bare fair skinned back      
Has her clean bare feet on the dashboard      
Her head nodding      
in time to the bass beats      
some techno radio station      
is filling our ears with      
Turns and pierces my soul with      
her green eyes smiling      
     
"I'm a weed"      
she softly mumbles      
     
"I'm as hard as concrete"      
I whisper in the nicotine of the      
second hand exhale I blow at      
the stained windscreen from      
the newly lit Camel cigarette      
     
"I know" she retorts as she leans over      
to take the warm beer saved in      
the console to her lips      
"The sun glares through      
your cracks"      
     
Then she pulled her dark      
spectacles from her cleavage      
and      
covered her eyes      
     
-x-

Sky and asphalt blend together  
watercolor shades of grey    
in the rain  
  
Wheels keep rolling  
into a distance unseen  
embracing the illusion
an infinity of road  
  
Intentionally losing track of days  
since leaving behind something  
that passed as home  
  
Several hours separated  
from the bad idea passed out  
in a hotel bed left at 3 a.m.  

Nothing felt better than driving  
away from another mistake  
  
Everything she wanted to escape  
was never farther than tire tracks  
splashing mud on her bumper  
  
But it sure killed time  
and she liked its blood  
on her hands