Summer Swan Song

Full bellied barreling down 31, the ring's the thing

keep repeating over and over, wound tighter'n a spring.

Tires hum on asphalt, windows down, late night air

jostling by dashboard light, errant strands of hair.

Knees pointed this way, a little skin shown

eyes front on the highway, look down turn to stone.

And those fingers lithe and long, lord they're right there

close enough along the neck to feel each transparent hair.

Engine slows down, signal clicks, once into the next zip code

hoping to find the lift bridge down, get this thing off the road.

Diamonds scattered on black sackcloth, orange half moon

summer bacchanalia down below, autumn's coming soon.

Walking out to the edge, and the leash pulling farther

wagering between bonfire smoke and perfume on the collar.