lying in the back seat
I watched the poles clip by
stroboscopically fast
enjoyed the feel of swerve
not sure what was drunkenness
what was the driver yelling like a
TV cowboy in our stolen car
sudden slow motion slide
becomes rolled tumble somersault
voices are what you hear first
not sure of the source...
who... where... what...
everything is warm
and faces are frantically large
looking at you... why... why...
floating immobile in farmed mud
rains made the tomato field soft
the fruit lies crushed
broken brown
rotting
chains clank close
tractor pulls
while sirens wail closer
wakening away the warmth
the white Chevy lifts slow
my small hands press on the roof
shown in photos now lost
trailed mud red hand prints
against the dead white roof
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