All four windows down,
burlap mullet in the wind.
across your paperback skin.
Face like motel heaven,
lips a bright strawberry storm —
rioting to the radio,
louder than the day you were born.
You say “this trick’s real easy,”
like skating full-speed with no rain.
But after hitting hills in Frisco,
I only see through cellophane.
Misty in the mountains,
girlhood blurred by ginny dreams —
the toe stop couldn’t catch me screaming;
I got smashed to smithereens.
“Diff ’rent worry from a diff ’rent season,”
you say, tapping scraped-up knees.
“You can make a house a home,
y’know, in any place you please.”
Hillbilly prophet, I know you’re right —
you tell me, “Just keep drivin’ straight.”
Onward, not upward, here is good:
My great escape on the interstate.