I have a red hot core.
That soon may sputter cold.
The manual shift of gears
Too fast for me to hold.
I run when I should stay,
And linger far too much
In empty parking lots
Awaiting this and that.
Still going sorta straight,
With your help on the wheel
But now that I drive solo
Directions run from me.
I sway here and there.
Drunken at the seat.
With sharp eyes, like a pilot,
And fog everywhere near.
I wish that I could stop.
Somewhere that's nice and cozy
I didn't ask the engine,
Nor scalding freezing winters.
I didn't need the ticking
Of brittle broken pedals.
I have a red hot core.
That soon may sputter cold.
About the Creator
M.
Half-time writer, all time joker. M. Maponi specializes in speculative fiction, and speculates on the best way to get his shit together.
Author of "Reality and Contagion" and "Consultancy Blues"
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