My head is a sea
of gasoline.
It smells strongly
of travel and
it smells slightly
like the breath I was able to take
when dad got out of the car.
Fill 'er up.

This arm
on this clock
is a match
hovering over me
a plume of fume
rising up to hug the flame
and ignite my life
turning to a simple scheme
of color and strife.

Then, I'm a pile of rubble
because this machine sea blew.
Where will I sleep now?