We stop
against our better judgement,
even though we’ve barely got
a dime between us and we shoulda
used it for laundry because your last
t-shirt is starting to smell like that
rest stop two towns back.
The black
black pavement just keeps on
moving and that dot-to-dot line is a
golden ellipses to the next thing but
we don’t know what that is and so
maybe we should just keep cranking
up the Stones and keep on rolling.
But we’re
on E, see? And it doesn’t stand for
everything or anything, really, except
that everything’s a mess and even
with a full tank I’d be empty
of common sense and still endlessly
edging myself into eventual eclipse.
And maybe
here’s where I get out. Get off this
crazy ride and hide and find myself
again right here in the middle of…
Kansas? Nebraska? Where are we?
So maybe not. Not quite yet. But
it’s fuel for thought.
::
In April, we poem.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Nice.
The title and the story it tells reminds me of “The Last Chance Texaco” by Rickie Lee Jones