Driving through the scorching,
escape pod feebly sputtering,
windows down to feel the wind-
oven-hot and smothering.
Phones fried by the heat,
leaving only this thrift-shop
duop CD.
No GPS, no messaging.
Just us on a stretch
of fever-thick street.
We’ve sped into another realm
where my hand lolling from
the passenger’s side and
you humming along
to some fifties song
about angels and dreams
is all that was, is,
and ever will be.
Oh, my angel baby,
you’re my angel baby.
pm poetry 