Fred Aiken Writing

sitting in the back of a Ford Fiesta while telling my friend he needs to go faster,

no wait, slower, I don’t know, just not the speed you’re going now,

the contents of my post-siesta meal holding the entire car hostage,

blinkers throwing up gang signs as we settle into the side of the road,

fishing out change hidden beneath decapitated doll heads

that may indicate the people I associate with have larger

underlying

issues floating up from the muddy green lake

that everyone skinny dips in

while smoking weed and drinking over-the-counter cough medicine

without a sinus in sight,

made up of little pointillism paint strokes on imperfect canvas

that drunken dads in old Chevrolets belch over

while moms sit back and appreciates in the disappointment of her son/daughter/thing

passed out

and dreaming of a place to crash the night

before the car skids into the treehouse for one last time