i am the groaning when tires greet highways
plus late night talk radio blared over the engine
the patter of kamikaze gnats
leave a smatter of guts with each bombsplat
punctured only by the lone sedan
and their horns’ Doppler squeals
i’m neon sign deals, 24-hour steals
home-cooked ammonia meals for men behind 18 wheels
and i am the lamps of empty Ford dealerships
my greyish white sickness stretched over used pickups
the kind of dread you might find behind Super 8 doors
– or in your mother’s favorite department stores
seeping through unfilled gaps of little chit-chats
or smiles you crack thanks to shiny nick-nacks
i’m 10 hours spent for 3 hours’ leisure
will that be cash card or check
and is it business or pleasure