Madd (So Sadd)
Grasp for the clutch,
(clutching on automatic
chances)
clench my jaw –
am I clutch?
no luck.
I gasp! (gassed)
the gas-tank tanked.
Tired I try,
but floppy tires
blunder
like a drove
of drunken thunderbirds.
“Gear up guy! Get some get-go!”
I exhaust, idle
and stammer,
grass spattered,
paint chips scattered,
brakes broke
and steering hammered -
destination
is going,
rear-view gone.
Turn my wheels (or my keys, at least).
Just don’t give me a brake.
Copyright © Andrew Gallagher | Year Posted 2008
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