Sometimes you want
the backseat
fade upholstery
and dead yellow jackets
and a spider web
sans spider
and old seat belts
that might work
that might not
Sometimes you want
the backseat
with the sweet smell
of crushed dead
pine needles and
last month’s mud
you want the danger
of youth with your age
the knocking on the window
of a baton the move along
move along the excitement
of our poverty
our bereft spirit
takes too often a hold
of our clean linen senses