Rabbit Holes and Harps
Grid lock
traffic backed up for millennium
Rabbit holes in every lane
both ways.
No getting around them
102 degrees -hot tar dripping into pink lungs.
Buckle up and ramble on my good son.
Seams are coming undone
steamed into oblivion.
I ride a flat tired star
no time to jack anything up
I hear not a single harp.
No working parts left
flesh -metal -bone beside the burning road
time to dismount and hop along my good toad.
A million and one rabbit holes to go
I no longer hear those hazy harps of gold.
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