As i tyre
depressed grip
on the road of life
i swerve
to avoid another connection to somewhere
deflated
insulated, why did i create
this curator, again of rubber illusion
fusion, on the highway
not used to high
ways
ever
i always seem to dread the
cords ripped
stripped, and flipped like an egg
on the hub cap heated
unbuckled on the back seat
brake
take the given
of
last nights
beer
sorry baby
forever severing
your neck from the back seat
tension
the prison sentence.
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