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.
About the Creator
Tom Baker
Author of Haunted Indianapolis, Indiana Ghost Folklore, Midwest Maniacs, Midwest UFOs and Beyond, Scary Urban Legends, 50 Famous Fables and Folk Tales, and Notorious Crimes of the Upper Midwest.: http://tombakerbooks.weebly.com
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