we push on towards home

  

sometimes we drive
in old cars
across bridges
or under the stars

up the coast or
down the coast
breathe deep then
a long exhale
1000 sparkling afternoons 

spilled from the belly of the beast

nothing to show 

but sun burned skin

and tired muscle

The Fender Telecaster
the sound of an old corvette
deep throaty grumble
wet with un-burnt gas and carbon monoxide

the stop light violently changes

the river of time flows

we push on towards home

nothing beyond the event horizon