dim car, orange shadows
the radio is fuzzy but we
still sing the words, and the
telephone wires are licorice
strings against the moon.
the 7-eleven is a lime in the
distance, a buzzing machine
over aisles of bugles and salted
pretzels basking beneath the
heated lamps. Occasionally
I can feel a road-trip in my
bones filled with endless
nights of my bare feet
on the cool dashboard
curling against the
pane, steady breath
steady breath, and
at least someone
beside me.