flesh and blood stagnant in the automobile

Lethargically glaring outside the windshield into abyss
hands on their laps
seemingly waiting for the world to tend to their farmlands yet to yield
October comes as the grown-downs dress up and run to knock on Father Time’s hourglass;
then they remember they are flesh and blood.
They start up the engine and go home to their families.

Tomorrow becomes now
Once again
The moon rises stale
Seat belts fastened
Almost lusting for a collision
Ejected onto oncoming
train of thought traffic
where they relay their regrets into pools of balsamic vinegar
into the night
with its still divide
everything feels filthy
the automobile shines as if had been washed by the finest shoeshiners of the gentrified slum;
then they remember they are flesh and blood.
They start up the engine and go home to their one bedroom apartments.

Hands switch to nine and a quarter past five as if they have a place to be
The moon argues with the sun
It can frolic and parade elsewhere
the moons rays must keep the vessels within the automobile company
Going mad
Regardless if the sky is full
The dark silhouettes of meat bags shaped by bone tango on fine pavement
The automobiles serve as confessional booths
and motel rooms
with a view;
then they remember they are flesh and blood.
They start up the engine and go home to hang thenselves.

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