Sunday, February 12, 2017


driving on the not so open
road, fresh ivory dashes
against asphalt from drudgery
twelve hours locked
in place- looking at glass

the trip meter reads 777.
If I were in Atlantic City
under a sapphire sphere those
sevens would be my jackpot,
thousands of quarters ping
pinging like sleet on windows.
Enough not to go to bed hungry
tonight or for the next many nights.
Yes to prime rib and bury
enough in the backyard.

Tonight, the only jackpot that befalls
me are liquid half dollars splattering
against the windshield

That blue sphere shatters and I’m
on the same road where Lady Luck
masturbates on the shoulder
while cars keep going nowhere.

Hey all, I wrote this poem a couple of years ago while I worked at a glass factory. I was driving home and I just happened to notice the trip meter reading 777 just as it started to rain- those big, fat raindrops. Would love to know to know what you think

Till next time...

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