A WormHaus on Walpurgisnacht

Home
Up

On Sunday Drives

     It's cold in the back seat of the car
     The grays, blues, and browns of a
     Snowless countryside in
     Winter pass by the wrap-around
     Screen of the rear window glass.

     There's a lot of room between
     My knees and the front seat
     Where you sit beside him.
     Talking, chattering, saying nothing
     In particular as you glance
     Occasionally from his face
     To the black road ahead.

     I raise my hand to touch the
     Velvet surface of the roof-liner
     And, predictably, I am admonished
     As my finger traces across
     His field of vision in the rear-view
     Mirror.

Lots of ashtrays... I wonder How many cigarettes they Have to smoke to fill them all up?