Slow Hand

Slow hand Drizzle coats the billboard sitting on that desolate stretch of highway waiting for someone to read or at least hide behind, parked car, back seat steamed windows, sighs just above a holler, a collar unbuttoned, casual abundance with the radio on seeking a Clapton tune as nimble fingers show the difference between a slow hand and a destined position, where rain doesn’t matter because it is just as wet inside though hotter than an August day, perspiring in the friction when love hits the four way flashers blinkers accelerate, left, right, faster, names are called, tears are cried and the road home now beckons just as advertised . . .