the lines in the road
read hope
running in great strides
and leaping
towards the next mile
i let it ride until
it makes some sort of
sense because
the design is garish
glamorous and futile
an unknown superstar
driving a pre-owned
station wagon
of obscure and boastful
language with a
tank that runs on
black coffee and rum
the windows are
spotty at best
stained with nicotine
and the engine hums
like an old man
with a bad cough
driving down the
information highway
men laugh
and women stare
and the heart is a
backseat driver
one wrong turn on
these bald and worn
tires is all
it takes to leave
me revoked