Cruising at eighty miles per hour,
two-door coup, blood shot eyes
that pristine cowboy hat above a stiff collar,
still flecked from a morning haircut.
You’re getting old, Tom
too old for that blonde sitting next to you—
on top of you,
with her head bobbing, bobbing, bobbing.
Your hands shaking, blue veins showing
through papery skin.
Keep them on the wheel, Tom,
steer through the dust and sand
through the heat and asphalt.
Eyes closed now, neck muscles tightened to cords,
hands clinging like hell to the wheel.
And the coupe goes flying
your sweet, sweet coupe, into the arroyo.

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