Ballad of the Reluctant Road Warrior

Turning to the door, eyes barely open

Stepping to the nacreous chill

Of a thrice ordinary Thursday

Slowly sagging in the drizzle

He would curse if he could

But a cage match with computer

And the phones, and another

Goddamn fritzy pen

Has robbed him of the energy…

A slow walk, in a sad rain

Is the refrain in his head

Courtesy of another man in black

That wears it, not thinks it

Not a zombie, exactly, bluish fingers

Fumbling with chill metal of keys

To pour into a seat shaped too much

Like his ass, which he thinks

Has been kicked too much…

Starting the car, a giant’s wind-up toy

He grins crookedly and thinks that

While he would likely not buy a Jaguar

He sure would accept if it was offered

Shiny metal box on the asphalt river

Where it always seems to be against the current

Demented, dazed salmon frantic for a lunatic sea

Hoping not to crash, mangled, exhausted

Until the arrival home…

Guardrails gleam, the oily hides of metallic

Serpents acting as guides in the syrupy mist

Mist he cannot discern from the fog in his head

Broken by the diabolical ruby glow of taillights

Taillights, unbroken smear of petrochemical blood…

Million curses, the swear jar full to bursting

Upon reaching home, coasting to a stop

To exit the belly of the beast, watering eyes

And fevered mind desperate for relief

Wondering, how many eons this will last.