Headspace

The grind had taken it’s long toll
And the cog’s teeth were close to breaking

Until one fine morning
it unscrewed the nut
slipped off the bolt

and rolled down the road

the rain is still hitting the windshield
like a thousand million bullets just barely too weak
one hundred and eleven gallons, two hundred and seventy-five dollars
we are far from home

if the rain lets up we may hit milwaukee by daybreak
when we get there we can stop for a while
maybe sleep with the windows cracked and the seats back tonight

this amateur affair is all that keeps me going.