Formula Racer
He’s itching,
he’s twitching,
he’s ready to shop.
The big rigs
are rolling;
they’re making a stop.
He’s tracking,
WhatsApping,
he’s all in the know.
He’s topped off,
he’s loaded,
he’s ready to go.
He scored him
some soy-based
down under the bridge.
The goat milk
awaits him
just over the ridge.
She’s calling,
she’s balling;
it’s almost all gone.
His eyelids
are heavy;
been at it since dawn.
He got to
the last stop
a minute too late.
The guy in
the Tesla
scooped up the last crate.
He cannot
go home yet;
he can’t bear to face her.
He’s trying
to score some;
he’s Formula Racer.
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Echos of Cake's The Distance in my mind on this one...
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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