The Spin


Waxing, waning: Whiskey Sours.
White washed wooden floors,
boundup untouched parking-lot snow,
begging for horsepower soaked
V8 rear wheel drive;
Wound too tight, then let go for the spin.
Clutching dreamtight to
whatever handhold there is.

Letting so much more than the movement go.

Hoping for lightning storms
over oh so high Denver,
Tho the June drive thru left much out.
Finding me drained,
wanting so much more
than there is even remote possibility for.
The snow too deep now.

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