Dry Ride
The road is sluggish,
trucks burn the sky,
the sun roasts the blacktop.
We crawl out of one place
only to meander and inch
into another melting byway.
I count hawks and buzzards,
play the same music track
over and over again.
The air-con blasts
as we tinker with the time
we have left
before we can reach
that cube of ice
inside a cold margarita.
First though
we have to pour ourselves
out of a wilting car
away from the combustible
fumes of all these
overheated thoughts.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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