55,
60,
65,
70,
75 miles per hour
Hitting the gas
Looking in the rear view mirror
Side view
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear
Running like an outlaw
Like a gang leader from yesterday
Robbing stagecoaches
Hands up at the bank
Locomotive halted
She spun around
Like a spider mother in her web
Creep down the staircase to the basement
Nothing but the faceless and forgotten
Skin so intricately removed
Forgot the prints
And had a driving pint
Draw the curtains
Pick up the mail
Close the refrigerator door
Plow the driveway
I kept my foot on the pedal
No looking back
Speed set steady
Remembering shady lane yesterday
Buried
Excavated up at the range
Quarter past eight
Officer knocked at the door
I once was a murderer
Now I’m clean of my sins
Admitted in writing
Innocent like a naked boy frolicking on the hillside
Exit here, make a left turn
© 2024 David Greg Harth
24.12.26.13.00.12.12@739PA