Traffic on Verplanck
was unusually fucked.
It must've been the tail-end
of commuter train stop exodus.
A voice he used to recognize
sprawled out to his right.
He snapped the first menthol
while fumbling to light it.
The second slipped from fingers
flicking ash at pavement.
If the song on the stereo
didn't require a third
he would've cut his losses
but he's never taken hints
on what's not meant to be.
His lids slammed shut
at his favorite, final verse
but his right foot
paid no attention.
"What're you doing?"
his passenger asked, pawing at the door.
"Open your eyes, you're driving!
You'll put us eight feet under!"
But that cancer tasted too sweet
to lose his bet with memory
or succumb to schizophrenia.
He always won
on borrowed time
just as we all live.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment