Standing in convertibles, reckless
random numbers in a program they
will never understand. Burning scraps
of coupon books and letting the friction
hold the flames in the air leaving clouds
of ash behind them. Dogs in the field
try and keep up with them but can’t hold
out against the sheer endurance of the
aging internal combustion.
In the sky above them is just the sun,
and as it turns out only one of them could
stand to look up at it for more than a second.
Vs of ducks fly low towards a small pond
they were approaching from the East,
and crab apples covered the street to
be crushed under the weight of the tires.
The rest of it was just the passing time
and all the crossing telephone wires.