Homeward bound, the end of the day blues, my car breaks down and I have to hitch.
Thumb sadly pointing up a beautiful blue sky, where no angels fly.
Rancid aftertaste coagulates on my tongue from curses filling my mouth.
Damn alternator, pathetic rusted hunk of trash.
It was nostalgic at first, a classic, like an 8-Track of Nancy Sinatra.
Now coarse roadside grasses are crushed by balding tires.
Slowly they will die beneath the weight of my empty wallet.
Unable to afford a tow truck, spoon-fed tired dreaming, thumb out.
Fling caution to the wind, get into the first car that pulls over, it was a long day.
Rusted pick-up with a salacious attempted pick-up, in no mood for flirtation.
Practiced elocution designed to put me at ease, I push past the bullshit.
Like rotten apples I throw my anger, rant at his unwashed profile.
It is not long before I am again in the roadside grass, pointing at the clouds.
A bustle of insects, low humming and a rustle, beetles don’t care about my Chevy.
Toad squats like Buddha in the froth of a ditch, watches with disinterest.
Soon the sun has gone to bed, and fireflies arise from the shadows.
Winking their diode with a sense of humor, dancing to the song of crickets.
Home looms from the cradle of hills, porch light gathering moths.
Tired feet find the bedroom without stopping to remove my shoes.
One more day in a calendar of days, strung together like plastic beads.