Death By The Divide

It was a warm December as we drove
‘round and through the boulevards,
looking for the final exit.

Our getaway dream, or so, it seemed,
fueled with hysteria, cigarettes 
and gasoline.

I lent an ear to the stereo as we sped
past the nodding hemlock.

It played a song of purloined love -
a trailing sonic potpourri
of crushed hopes, sex and candy.

There is roadkill, by the divide
where a black dog segues
from pointer to carrion guard,
waiting for its owner to wake.

I turned my head. 
Put my foot down.
Looked for the interstate.

You were alabaster white,
my partner in flight;
pale eyes closed, 
shoulder leaning into me.

Is this day our last? Who knows?
But the curb weight
of our souls seem so dead,
so dense, so heavy.

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