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Description
Highway stretches out, steaming still from the
Gossip of the car, its nerves thin and weary.
Night is closing in, but always there will be
A car incessantly chattering and groaning.

Tar lines zig and zag across its face like the
Lines of sweat mingled with the grime of a day's
Work on the brow of an old cowboy with a face like
Leather and who's been driving fence posts all day.

The sound of tires rage like the rapids winding through
Colorado and its mountains. the sound could certainly drive
A person mad and the neon lights of the night seek refuge
Against the still rosy, natural, wispy, orange sky: atrocity.

Wind roaring through the windows rouses every single
Sense and piques its interest while ripping passengers
From their cramped slumber, like a lover roused too
Early in the morning, dogged by her worldly responsibilities.

the night grows thin like the old, faded flannel night-
Gown the wife of the leather-faced cowboy always wears.
there is silence for a time, but it dissipates at five
In the morning, because there's more work to be done.

A catalogue of sights and sounds deftly and with great
And surprising ease blankets the streets of the town.
You'd never know the town wasn't asleep or abandoned
Save for the cars groaning on the highway without a care.

The hills two hours north-east of here are a contrast
With the stark cow-dotted expanse of flat, brownish
Plains that stretch on for what seems hours of eternity
Over this paradise that is fondly and hatefully home.

Legs sprawl out on the dash pale and looking like a Texas
Mile. They soak in the sunlight of a cloudless and calm
Day. A big orange tom-cat must feel like this when he is
Sitting on the fence during spring: at ease, content, warm.

Road signs stand ageless against the ever-changing green
And gold scenery. Two-hundred miles until the car will
Roll into a no-name, one-horse town, population one-thousand
Who want nothing to do with the Goddess with a mouth of metal.

Quaint, like when a church lets its service out on Sunday
Morning and the townsfolk shuffle toward the unchanging
Diner, is the only way to describe a jaunt across Texas.
It's like skipping a perfect grey stone across still water.

The roaring tires, the open windows, the arbitrary tar
Lines and the gossip of cars simply goes on as the sun
Beats down. Somewhere in Lampasas a girl with metal in
Her mouth reaches into her pocket and finds melted chocolate.

Description
Highway stretches out, steaming still from the
Gossip of the car, its nerves thin and weary.
Night is closing in, but always there will be
A car incessantly chattering and groaning.

Tar lines zig and zag across its face like the
Lines of sweat mingled with the grime of a day's
Work on the brow of an old cowboy with a face like
Leather and who's been driving fence posts all day.

The sound of tires rage like the rapids winding through
Colorado and its mountains. the sound could certainly drive
A person mad and the neon lights of the night seek refuge
Against the still rosy, natural, wispy, orange sky: atrocity.

Wind roaring through the windows rouses every single
Sense and piques its interest while ripping passengers
From their cramped slumber, like a lover roused too
Early in the morning, dogged by her worldly responsibilities.

the night grows thin like the old, faded flannel night-
Gown the wife of the leather-faced cowboy always wears.
there is silence for a time, but it dissipates at five
In the morning, because there's more work to be done.

A catalogue of sights and sounds deftly and with great
And surprising ease blankets the streets of the town.
You'd never know the town wasn't asleep or abandoned
Save for the cars groaning on the highway without a care.

The hills two hours north-east of here are a contrast
With the stark cow-dotted expanse of flat, brownish
Plains that stretch on for what seems hours of eternity
Over this paradise that is fondly and hatefully home.

Legs sprawl out on the dash pale and looking like a Texas
Mile. They soak in the sunlight of a cloudless and calm
Day. A big orange tom-cat must feel like this when he is
Sitting on the fence during spring: at ease, content, warm.

Road signs stand ageless against the ever-changing green
And gold scenery. Two-hundred miles until the car will
Roll into a no-name, one-horse town, population one-thousand
Who want nothing to do with the Goddess with a mouth of metal.

Quaint, like when a church lets its service out on Sunday
Morning and the townsfolk shuffle toward the unchanging
Diner, is the only way to describe a jaunt across Texas.
It's like skipping a perfect grey stone across still water.

The roaring tires, the open windows, the arbitrary tar
Lines and the gossip of cars simply goes on as the sun
Beats down. Somewhere in Lampasas a girl with metal in
Her mouth reaches into her pocket and finds melted chocolate.