even if you run a car in reverse
the odometer ticks forward relentlessly

the red convertible
(despite a slow motion mood)
chugs forward relentlessly

or not –
physics isn’t quite clear

minutes / hours might be
a contextual illusion
in this black hole of consciousness

what I really want to know
is how to stop my hair
from whipping

into my eyes
with the top down – and –

what does singing on a float
have to do with gravity?

we play hooky
down by the scenic route
maximizing our wonder per mile

this is before someone
pretends to drown

we fool everyone
on this joyride

no one knows
the distance, our speed

It starts with the stink of sour milk as we pull science experiments out of a hat, one magician’s scarf after another: half a can of pumpkin, followed by orange albumen, then jammy blackberry compote sporting fuzzy mold spores. Everything sweats in the light, but the one blessing is that the incessant clicking has ceased. No need for a harbinger now. As usual, we misread the signs and keep mopping up stale water. There isn’t much we can salvage, but there wasn’t much in there, anyway. The vodka from six months ago goes back to the bar. The corn which has been unfrozen and refrozen more times than strictly advisable? Tossed. How smart we look for not stocking the freezer. It’s almost like we’re prepared for things to break.