He listens, absently Fondling the shifter’s knob, Manipulating the many buttons before him, Praying for more borrowed time.

How foul the points are. How rasped the breaks.
Internal combustion has, too long, been a response to helplessness.

Soaked to the center in sweet sickness, He goes, hooked up, plotted on this graph as significant as a pinhole in the exhaust pipe. Finds he’s looking for an engine that purrs like fur. Cannot locate it.
He goes, the voices of machineries, mammals embedded in his jelly. His nose glowing bright behind that crisp, clean windscreen… he is oblivious. A meat and liquor coma amplifies the Voices in a cauldron churning to a boil. They are attached to bodies bleating, whirring, and moaning.

The day is filled with voices commanding center stage.
Something’s missing. Something smells funny.
It’s on the inside… it’s coming from under the hood. Turn it off.
Shut it down.
A punctured metal face dusted in black soot shows no sign of anything but tragedy.
He stomps the breaks and crumples his hood.
A baby man on the loose
Full in his pants,
Full to his tiptop full.