There’s a 19 car pileup on Vasquez Rocks.
You’re late. This would be a good excuse.
I want to grind that thought out like your cigarette.
Drive right over it.
You were dead to me the first time
I found motel matches
in your pocket.
You brought me offramp roses.
Your fingers smelled like someone else.
When the traffic doesn’t move
when I’m lost again in Pasadena
and my pussy dampens,
I think of fellating you on the freeway
to pass the time.
Is that what you’re thinking of?
From the 5 to the 2 to the 134.
Take the Pearblossom Highway.
Make a smooth transition.
Tell me exactly how it’s going down and
I’ll write that poem.
The one where you’re supposed to
be on time, and I’m supposed to care.