The road moves like a silver fish
Towing us along.
It dips and curves, silent salivation dripping from
The lips of those imagined howlers.
Glassy eyed and sharp canines
Bloody meat, sucker sweet.
We are an orange moon bobbing on a string
Pinned to the fish flipper.
The mist is whisper-tucked into the low places
Wide eyed with a blanket to its chin
And a flashlight thrown
To the dark corner of the room. I can hear
A breath sucked in. My lungs are a juice-box
With no liquid left and he’s still thirsty.
Glass clinks in the cup-holder and
Liquor giggles a cackling
Low cricket-soaked breeze.
Artwork by Kelly Reemsten