Across the leather,
Backseat confessional,
Secrets fly through the glass,
At 30 miles per hour,
This church is a refuge
In a sea of faces,
Traversing the asphalt
As only a person can,
With the everyday pride
that their trade can bring,
Perfectly timed swerves
out of the way of
yet another pedestrian,
Or the sound of the muffled radio,
and the bottom of the 9th,
As we finally roll to a quiet stop,
I jelly my way out of the seat,
Handing the crumbled
*** of bills and loose change,
Sauntering on home yet another night,