twenty volcanoes are erupting on earth right now
and why not
let them;
my son is asleep in the car
the radio plays
the skies are grey
the windows are nearly shut
a delicate breeze converges with
our transcendence
we are being transported
as he possibly dreams about
another football league he wants to invent
or, as he mentioned before hopping in the car
he wanted to leave the tennis early
to write his own song at home
he wants to relate, impart and begin his goodbyes
as the gale invading the vehicle is like the
tempest of ideas burgeoning his mind
i pull up to traffic lights and
i wonder if such joy exists in
the other cars
around us
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