the drive



lips tingle

like Brachetto

sparkling stars

on my tongue


the last cigarettes

we smoked

in your car

on the road

we were

new Kerouacs


lacking for words

we made up

in sound

sighs or laughter

window taps or puffs

of smoke


you flicked the ash

too hard I think

perhaps I saw the cherry

glowing little firefly-ing

sparking on a road work sign