tired

eyes carry bags

that do not fit in 

the overhead compartment

hands slip through 

the cuff of each sleeve,

stiff as metal

nostrils pick up the scent of stale;

breadcrumbs on a wooded trail;

for someone to find;

to follow

ears pop;

a champagne toast,

to black leather studded sky,

to biker bars,

to topless cars

and women

enough to sleep under sheets

of paper moon fantasy,

of midlife freedom

in red and blue flashing crisis

down the road already traveled

on the other side of the median

in a town so small i can 

barely

see 

it