On my fluke commute
I ran my eyes
girl on a bike to my right
Nice body fine. I look.
Green light. Still idling.
The ruts
don't down my gut
the instincts live on
these furtive stalls
and my ute still runs.
Called a survivor
the world is a scrape.
The barrel, bye the bye,
is full of fish.
And I'm unloading.
Blue eyes sell me
on cloudless skies.
but I remember the
November evenings,
warm whiskey, selling
everything for rhythm.
Hurricane season
is out. Avoiding the crossfire,
I gas, gas, gas,
counting my eggs.
|