"windshields" poems
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they have chapped lips
And the jagged edges
Will slice your tongue
Whenever you touch them
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because metal on metal
Isn't a forgiving sound
But you already know that
From when you had your first kiss
And you were each wearing braces
You shouldn't kiss telephone poles
Because they are sensitive
And will bite your lip with an electric current
But not in the way that you were hoping
And rear view mirrors aren't for decoration
But you never bothered to look at them
When you were desperately switching lanes
And speedometers aren't for your entertainment
But you always enjoyed watching the needle fluctuate
As though your life depended on it
(It did)
And the high beams of oncoming cars
Aren't Christmas lights in restaurant windows
And crashing through the windshields
Won't bring you any closer
To the apple pie the bakery down the street made
That always reminded you of home
And even though you no longer recognize
The town you grew up in
Or the boy you fell in love with
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they might kiss you back
But not in the way that you were hoping.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.
I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me.
If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.
If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.
One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.
If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.
Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.
If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips
If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird.
If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
Would a blue ballpen without ink just lie
To die, like the children of our past needs,
The mouths of their thinning souls leeching
Our piety, our profanity, our tendency to build society
Off faces and masks,
Individual fragments of ourselves.
Would one give a thousand pesos to he who smears
Windshields with soap to take a few coins hostage
Or to she who exhibits a gaunt infant, an offspring
Of want, not wanted, the wear and tear of a rough
World manifest on emaciating juvenile skin. Would one
Give a thousand?
Would one commit a kiss?
When mere change can buy a pen with its full blood,
What then is the worth of the bleeding, the bearded
Blind on the somber sidewalks of forgetfulness where
Without ink, it ceases to be blue, and unable to write,
He has no need for a pen.
The world is writing his story,
He is only there to punctuate with his blood.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
She said people were seasons,
and when I first met her, I couldn't agree more.
After getting to know her, I wished that I didn't.
Her ex-lovers were Winter, and her eyes were a shade of Spring.
I could see the vulnerability of a car crash
swimming in each fountain trapped behind her emeralds.
She was beautiful in the way that could cause suicides,
and fix spider-webbed windshields after each collision of,
“Are you okay,” and, “I’m fine; I promise.”
Every story was Winter, and she was always left alone in the snow.
Mauve lips mouthed words that silently whispered,
"When is this too much? When are you going to leave?"
People are patterns,
and all she knew was the tessellation of temporary love and permanent loss.
Her hands trembled as she looked down.
She was in transit; moving after each hope of home fell apart.
And I wanted to kiss her like the world was falling apart.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
Walls and gates kept her away
from what she needed
but didn't want
Beds of white cotton
submerged in what she
thought she didn't feel
Dusty pens in a dusty cup
on a dusty desk
She hammered at armor
that she had been hammering at
for years
since she was a young child
binding the pieces but
secretly
looking for cracks
to break out of
Kicking *** and taking names
but throwing the names away
Ripping keys out of the
typewriter
Every fifth letter
scratched into porcelain skin
Soap stripping her of what
made her normal
But there is no normal
She was still abnormal
Trying to open herself
to let the oxygen-free blood
stain her outline
so she could be seen
for a moment
Just one moment
and then get erased by
everyone
else
like always
She wanted to fly and shine
but there were others already
shining
and flying
Sun flashing and illuminating her
skeleton
Her skin transparent while lit
by the sun
Her heartbeat
skipped
and
stopped
and faltered
She tried to lose herself in everything she could
You could say she was selfish
but
you could say she just wanted to
be found, though,
by the right person
There is no right person
because anyone can break a shell
but nobody cares enough
to see what kind
of radiance
will light up the
universe
Nobody cares
that with every
single word
she is thrown
through windshields
Shards of glass
scathing her
inside
and
out
Drowning in pristine lakes
of beautiful love and
joy
How painful to not be able
to inhale
while drowning in
pristine lakes of lovely happiness
She could feel the
currents rushing past her fingers
but couldnt hold on
But she wanted to
She wanted to
hold
on
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
Lazy sundays with the sad glow
there’s nothing to be sad about
except that it is all over
of course, my one day off vanished
outside blowing meager paychecks
emerald hillsides topped with leaves
abutting, climbing the city
plunged into histories soon gone
like the cold, gold sun gleaming off
the ribbon of the tarmacked road
we returned to from our escape
peering back through the car’s windshields
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
mom betrays us.
headlights into the night
& up the breakneck boulevard bluff overlooking town and terminus.
she brings his heart in a ziploc bag,
an offering
to that old burnt-out oak.
[husband\father\corpse]
front porch blood trails forever. she
claims self-defense and the camera-eyes caramelize her
fame & fortune & stepdaddies & book deals & ziploc pb&js & dead dog omens.
when did the heartache begin?
heir\son\brother\body
racing car ****** and fluxed up the boulevard in a ritual reach for daddy and the oak.
the girls are waiting. one two three, seeds.
brakes sabotaged. he
bursts into death, a molten ball of mazda.
father and son laugh there on the brim of here and hereafter.
apparitions uncoiled.
[home movies]
where mercury avenue ends
the woods begin.
& those woods are evil, an eldritch place, she laughs.
even the indians wouldn’t bury their dead there.
america.
caught between the whir of spokes and windshields reflecting
sky and skin, the blue hue
of television flickering on the hands of a family.
grandsons conjure grandmaster demons
on the ply of their treefort high.
the heart of grandma in a ziploc bag.
jupiter and saturn are in conjunction,
twelve past midnight on a tuesday in september.
a school night.
[the babysitter brings over an unlabeled video tape, says its scary]
the children watch.
slumber party screams and pb&js.
ghouls blunted by pungent neighborhood inertia.
son, a ghost returned in rhythm and electronics,
hungry for pizza and pure vengeance.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
The doors of the churches and the schools are closed.
No decent people are on the streets,
Where we see sad crimes and horrible abuses.
Many windshields are broken by badly thrown stones.
Violence rains in the streets and in the corridors;
No dogs or cats dared to vent outside.
A few meager birds, on the branches, stare with disdain
And amazement several thugs and charlatans with masked faces.
It is sad to see these heinous crimes. How awful!
There is a hostile war? One wonders which party will win?
We can hear the voice of an old man coming somewhere
Who shouts faintly, "We are all poor victims, sad tramps,
Who are committing suicide for bad politicians, for misers. "
Not too far, we can see a crazy woman with a close friend,
Both in rags. It's a nightmarish image that proves
That the country has become a hell on earth. On the radio, they say
That some ships of the United States Navy are in the harbor.
What are they doing on our territory? We flee,
Or we do not flee? We cannot. Everyone is in prison.
Violence snows blood on the streets of a tropical country, where fear
Reigns. Children do not dare to play in the streets, where terror
Hisses like snakes, like machine guns of the enraged demons.
No war is civil or civilized; war among the same people is also violent
And nefarious. My God, things are very bad in the streets nearby.
Violence is raining and everyone is crying. Victims are everywhere at bay,
Waiting for the arrival of the good angels, who shall come perhaps in a few months.
Copyright © June 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
This is a translation of the poem La Violence Pleut Dans Les Rues by Hebert Logerie
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:27 AM UTC
The tangerine stained race track
spread across our **** carpet, a turn
by the wooden bed frame, a loop
near the five piece drum set.
My brother’s fingertips gripped a Hot Wheel
by its rear end, its rubber wheels
greeting the track, propelling it forward,
launching it into another plastic vehicle,
and Crash.
I nursed the toy cars through emergencies,
playing doctor to replace cracked windshields
and torn plastic bumpers, victims
of one too many collisions. It alarmed me
how easily the 1976 Mustang could lose its wheel,
sending it spinning like a dreidel while my brother grinned
with splintered teeth, feeling nothing.
The car survived the impact, but people
don’t always walk away from accidents. They can’t be raised
on jack stands and tinkered with. The operation table,
home to drivers with fluttering heartbeats,
can hum to the deafening beat of a flat-line monitor.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
1) 12 thousand tweets and none of them are substantial. They're becoming less and less about you though. Maybe that's what is substantial about them.
2) Something in the way you wrap sin in worship.
3) I'm an arson waiting to happen, is the funeral pyre really necessary?
4) Writing about you angrily isn't doing it anymore. I want to smash bricks through windshields that used to hold flowers I bought you.
5) Looks like you're not at the bottom of this one either. ****
6) My love has always been leprosy.
7) You're the interlude, not the chorus. But, that's okay I'm a terrible vocalist anyway.
8) She wants to date boys that are self aware and boy did she hit the jackpot.
9) You smile with the grace of grandmothers and I'm a bad boy like your grandpa after the War.
10) Can I cut out your grin and put in on the wall next to my framed poster of Bob Dylan and Charles Bukowski?
11) Trace my outline in chalk when I finally drink myself to sleep. I'm euthanizing the pieces of me that belong to you.
12) If I find you in Heaven won't you be in his arms? If I find you in Hell won't you be my torment?
13) You make me feel as insignificant as God does and I think that says something about prayer.
14) I quit paying my phone bill so I'd quit dialing your number like a suicide hotline.
15) My teeth are rotten like the lies that spill out of my teeth. You find me beautiful and I've never been more self-conscious.
16) Your silence fills my abdomen like daggers and words clot where crimson should flow.
17) Loving you is ************
18) My heart is at a crossroads and you're drowning in dust in the rearview mirror.
19) You prefer the subtle burns. The flames so hot they sever nerve endings when they lick your fingers the way I imagine I would.
20) She sings the body electric and I'm forced to worship her through computer screens and the scratch of needle on vinyl.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
a daunting bolero sends a shiver through a dream
a forlorn melody haunting a hazy delusion
crooning on a whimsical note
and breaking a melancholy tone
an elusive song opens into an abyss
of mambos and rumbas
that thrill like a superfluity of delicious electricity
strumming at our deepest treasures
buried in woebegone memories
seeping into our cellophane heads
and enveloping our entire being
until we heave our way back to reality
and dissolve into a sea of people
who are only twinkles
in the scudded windshields
of a rococo world
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
My friends all think I'm crazy because I stand in the middle of the street and talk to a God that doesn't exist while high-fiving the windshields of passing school buses. I stopped taking my medication again because guilt taste a lot better than artificial happiness, and I stopped wearing that cross you bought me for my eight birthday because it contradicted the sense of uselessness I received for my twelfth. Life seems a lot less precious when you're talking to your parents in the TV room of a psychiatric unit and look them in the eyes while they tell me not to cry and say that 'pain is only temporary'. All I do is write letters to a man on the moon about the time I realized how hard and easy it is to die. Send me to therapy and make me take pills. I'll smile, but I'll always remember how to tie a noose
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I used to eat ice cream on a pretty strict and regular schedule.
The anticipation for those designated nights consumed my naive mind.
Now,
on the nights that used to mean sweet, supple mounds of delicious bliss,
however brief,
I drink Missouri water from a thick, old, dusty glass.
As I tip the last drops into my mouth,
I see a mysterious stain (or is it a clump?) on the bottom.
Fortunately, I think to myself,
whatever that was didn't get into me.
Water runs through.
It cleans out.
It leaves nothing behind but undesireable water spots
in sinks and on windshields
mascara lines tracking down cheeks to squeeze between pushed up *****
and dead worms on the sidewalk,
evicted by the flood of this
life-giving,
breath-taking
rain,
waves,
that drink when your lips are cracking and you feel as if your mouth is filled with cotton,
when you look at a ***** puddle and think,
my GOD am I thirsty.
Ice cream melts in the mouth.
It refreshes in the heat of summer,
it teases the tongue with sugar and milk and so many seductive flavors.
It's best on special occasions,
even though it's desired all the time.
Sometimes it can be bought with the change found on a scavenger hunt in a car,
and other times,
it can't.
But even as the frozen delight slides off your tongue and into your stomach,
your tastebuds tremble at the lack of sweet.
They spite you with a bitterness and a dry, sticky feeling,
and your teeth feel coated with a grime you can't seem to lick off.
You keep wiping at your lips,
for you can't shake off the notion that you got some of the experience on your face.
I'm not even going to mention the calorie content of what you just downed.
And sometimes,
if you're like me,
too much can make you choke.
Your throat and lungs seem to be tucked within a terrifyingly tight Chinese finger,
and each spoonful is a desperate attempt to escape
only to fall farther into a trap I like to call
love.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
The sun is surrounded by puffy clouds
Wind is blowing leaves around
I smell rain in the air and feel
Tiny drops hit my skin
The rain falls slowly
and the wind picks up
and the rain is now heavy
with rumbles of thunder in the
distance.
The heavy rain smacks the leaves as
it's hurled to the ground.
It's falling fast and the water
plummets into pools of muddy
water making a splash that
smacks the ground.
Rain on the tin roof sounds like
pebbles hitting the metal.
The rain slows down and you
can hear the cars passing by
hitting the water that splashes their
windshields.
(Still working on)
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
**I exist to resist all your heavy-headed hits. Your words in stone, more absolute than death.
The way you glance below your jagged bridge, a grin dried in arrogance.
Your footsteps frighten the earth, but cease to shake my defiance.
Gravels cave, underfires exposed.
But even then I'll swim, in your ocean of shallowness, tigers on my tail,
Paradise Mirages mocking my waterless skin, even then, I said, I will swim to the Revolution's Shore.
Nevermind your ignorance, seeing blue skies and arguing them RED.
Deluded certainty, swearing on a man's soul to prove your point and feed your obsession.
I say "yes", you say "of course",
but no doubt I'm in the wrong.
I say "maybe" you say "perhaps,
and so you've proved your wisdom blind.
Mastered conspiracies, you've convinced your lies true.
In your mind you walk on water, as you strike your soles on mere tar.
Governor's Confetti lay dead on Governor's Ground;
fool's bravery in act, leading souldiers from behind.
This world,
The Principal's Playroom: clay towers and cars, play moneys and guards.
In the sun, your tin castles smile and glimmer in the shine.
But inside, hollowness reigns and you fail to see.
Eyes and Eyes fall to your sleep,
calamity by the masses as you care not to care.
Seconds linger as misted windshields shield the drunk driver,
and not even the death he brings can break the glass.
Deaf man with hearing ears,
the blind one who can see.**
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
The kind of cars
that I like,
are those 87' monte carlos,
subs
big as aircraft carriers
in the back.
Gold spoke
wheels,
able to turn
holes in the sky.
Chameleon
paint jobs,
green
and full
in the sun,
fading to black
and
glossy
in the shadows.
When I was a teenager,
the kings
used to ride by
in the
monte carlos
with open
windows
letting loose
a humbling roar
so loud
that it
put
ubiquitous vapors
into
the air.
The neighborhood smelled
like the thumping
and the hard hum
of their vibrating
windshields.
The kings
always
let the car slide slowly
in neutral,
and as they took
stock of their domain,
Their glossy gold fronts
made you realize
why gold
was
so important
each tooth looked like
a tablet of commandments.
Our wife-beaters
were
stained with ketchup
and other things
that bleach could never
get out,
and we smelled
funny.
But the kings
wore hawaiian shirts
and smoked
cigars.
The kings
were the preachers.
One of the kings
was Luke's brother,
whenever he stopped at a corner
we'd pile around
putting our fingerprints everywhere
until
he told us
to
**** off,
don't you have any
home-training?"
Luke would stand closest,
squinting
as he leaned on the driver-side
window,
all that bass
hammering
his bones.
"How much
did you pay for it?"
Reggie would ask
from the back,
peeking his head over,
trying to see
the king.
The king would smile,
and say
"enough."
we'd all be rapt.
He'd get a call
on his cellphone,
and we
would come up
with crazy numbers.
Luke didn't even know
how much
was
"enough".
The kings held the secret
of god
and power.
I wanted to be as close to god
as they were,
I wanted to know the secret
to contentment.
I wanted to come back home
with money like
the kings with gold teeth.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:42 PM UTC
we can paint this whole city gold like a giant oil spill,
blinding and much much heavy on your tongue
and enlist a gleaming marching band whose buttons are falling off,
the tuba player is a gum chewer, there are mint chunks caught inside, barely playable
all she can do is honk
we’ll get limos with cracked windows and yellow fire trucks,
with flat left tires
acrobats in risqué costumes that little boys will point and giggle at
with sick clown faces, sick clown faces white, 7 or 10 layers of powder
and people from the slums of Uganda/Somalia/Niger or something, poor areas won’t be hard to find,
foreign tenants who live in dirtied-down shacks and
we will release from plastic cages, doves that have lost their pure color
that have been injected with toxic who-knows-what to be captured
hookers with big hair from the streets of large cities, they will blow kisses at the children and
wink at grown men
pigeons will **** on the windshields,
and the air will be so thick with pollution and filth that no one will be able to see
the deflating balloons of Mickey Mouse.
it will be The Biggest Parade the-world-has-ever-seen.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
Please come save my body from my soul.
Even my fingernails ache with the weight
Of those thousand wine-induced truths.
Every eyelash carries a lost dream,
Neverlands and rain on windshields
In which I go nowhere in the night in a car
I can’t drive.
And my calloused heels!
Imperfections rendered by faulty directions,
U-Turns,
And Leaps of Faith
I’m surprised when my chest still rises and falls
And that breath still whistles through my nose
When all these bricks lay there,
Heavy and unmoved.
My body will someday reject me,
I fear.
Too many sleepless nights and coffee cups
Will shatter me
So please save me
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
**** feelings
Hurt feelings
Good feelings and bad feelings
Feelings about
**** all feelings.
**** crying
Crying can **** the **** off
Catch your tears with your tongue
Wiping them away is attention grabbing
It’s ******* crass.
**** shouting
**** screaming
**** pounding windshields
**** putting your fist through a wall
**** your ****** hands
Get a ******* hold of yourself.
Also
**** your joy
**** the light in your eyes
**** your inspiration
**** your wisdom
**** your compassion
**** that ****
**** burning eyes
**** tender throats
**** holding and hurting and grasping
and missing and dying
Go **** yourself.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Maybe she sees
Gentle rays of the sun
Glimmer from my face
Just like how I see her:
The light in the darkness
Of life's obscure fog
I wonder if she feels
The warm summer breeze
That would slowly blow
Upon her soft cheeks
Whenever I speak
The same breeze I feel
When she tells me
Nothings and somethings
I hope she feels
The slight glow
Of white moonlight
When my arms wrap around her
The very same glow
Whenever her arms
Lock themselves behind me
Sending me a message
To never let her go
I wish she forgets seeing
The heavy rains
That flood the roads on my face
Whenever I asked
If I were enough for her
Or if I were too much to handle
I wish she understands
The cyclones in my head
That clap thunder and flash lightning
Whenever the anger in me
Boils the chaotic saltwater
And creates tsunamis
In the vast ocean of my mind
I wish she forgives me
For the hailstorms in my words
That fall to the ground
And break like glass shards
That shatter windows and roofs
And car windshields and windows
I am a force of nature
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
I guess they've adapted
to our debris
the wedge of geese
flying north
over south bound traffic
the hawks perched
on top of
parking lot poles
and the great blue heron
paddling air
with enormous wings
shadowing hissing lawns
and lifeless pools
but what about us
hands clenched
on wheels
weary eyes scanning
mirrors and windshields
wingless and waiting
for red to turn green
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC