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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment