seventy five on i-95
roaring down the highway
we burn our fingers raw
“skin grows back
overnight, babydoll.”

devoid of sunlight
the AC unit makes July Artic
so we only rise from flea filled sleeping bags
for cold showers & barbecue sandwiches.

for chaos is just beyond
the bedroom door
of the out-of-towner’s
crooked apartment built
upon a pawn shop, the one
where we shoot fireworks
out the window,
at truckers
on route one.
where bobby’s got
his stereo set up
that will get you higher
than those pills scattered
within your mother’s jewelry box.