Little Honda
flying through open
country at some hellish speed,
seeing the blurry steeples poking
small harmless wounds
through the mist in the distance;
I am not on my knees
listening to those
bells ring. I am one last
flickering laugh, I outlast
the flight of mourning
doves;
this engine is
the chorus of
a thousand boy bands singing,
that glint of light
on the road ahead, all that's good
and left
of someone they all
once knew
and loved.
