passenger.

he drives a paintchipped
little bullet
he's thought better
of selling,
going at least seventy
but i'm no good
judge.

the road pours,
drips down through
his tea-light lenses
('cause thompson
wore 'em).
he keeps his foot
steady. his wheels
turn the earth.
the road at times looks wet
but he doesn't swerve or

even slow down.

he just keeps on,

destined,

predestined,

perhaps challenging

the distance per

gallon of gas gamble

but i wonder

what his copilot

is dreaming,

gaped mouth

in the next seat.