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a poem by Jocko Benoit
THE PASSENGER No room for your feet. What a stormy night To be hitching. Your hair is full of raindrops. Bad idea -- any serial killer could pick you up. I saw a TV show saying these guys Aren't mean -- they just don't feel Other people are real. Think they're the center Of the universe. You can give them all The fancy words you want -- I know evil when I see it. If you want to fix your face just use The rear view. Now you seem like A good person, but you can't trust too many. Hell, friends have hurt me in places A psychopath wouldn't know to look. You learn to trust your own judgment. You know, the rain must've stopped. Windshield's already dirty. That makes it Hard going. I drive the car a lot -- it's the Only place I feel at peace, where I've got Control of things again. In the end, We're all out here alone. You know? Damn -- no matter how much I turn up The heat it's freezing in here. Do you Have your window down? I like those Sparkles in your hair -- kind of a broken halo. Just come from a big party? That explains Those sirens I heard back there. Teenagers just can't control themselves. I love parties, but there's not many To go to now with everyone married, Raising brats. I'll bet your folks don't get Out much, do they? Think about that -- Kids never give parents consideration Or respect. Or maybe you're the quiet type -- Moody one, I'll bet. Thinks the whole world Is against you. Oh, now I see where The draft is from: that huge hole In the windshield when you came through it. What do you expect, jumping in front Of someone like that? Here, have a little Something to warm you up. Look, it's pretty, The lights on the bottle and in your hair Flashing red and blue and clear Red and blue and clear. |