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
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.