Georgia

Red sunset swirls color of old orange flames

as the car dives between the line.

Hostages to fortune cower in the backseat.

When will nightfall?

Draining the dusty throat

on broken glass bottle that the mop man picks up,

After stone cold negro trance mutters

with broken lip savoir faire "Hey muthafucka, hey."

Cleaning the muck of the floor

and sliding

—down your throat,

(the peppers)

and heat curls like an untamed cobra into your armpits,

And the darkness in here is broken

by jukebox tittering and rumble of

old pinball games

as we slide tables together

for a pool of food.

But outside.

OUTSIDE!!!

The psychopath leers into the peach sunset.

—Peach, peach, everything is peach.

The sky is peach, the earth is peach, the dusty old eighteen wheel monster silhouetted against the rays of flame

is peach.

Where are we going, sliding over the pitted,

cratered surface of this non-terrestrial world,

and you tell me about hotels in outer space?

This mission is over.

All color has been drained to pink.

The heat is all we have left and the sunset.