Rocks fling from the asphalt, loose pennies cast at my upturned bowler-hat bubble car, asteroids challenging my ozone windshield;
I’d forgotten how these roads feel.
Scattered with obituaries to long-dead high-school hopefuls. Laminated photographs,
cryogenic colleagues forever youthful; trunks smiling with plastic flowers, music blared: my Piccadilly daydream-
Each sliced bud grows in me, burgeoning, brimming with belated dreams: lifelong passions… complex machinery evolving day in, day out, all erased by a flick of the wrist.
The power of gods in these hands. Who let us behind the wheel?
It feels heavy in my hands like stainless steel.
Sweetly Unhappy People 