mah maou

back in the stew
march of ought nine
shorts and sweaters

route 13 south
carving out the slow curves
bttls blasting hi/lo

one hand on the wheel
an elbow cutting the breeze
bidi hanging off the bottom lip
burning a thousand matches

smooth sweet acrid curls
blue lights in the rearview
double pinners over my right ear
a bota bag full of cheap cab
reaching up for the crash on tras2

but the five-oh screams past
and my phone is switched off
and i don’t have to reach for my back pocket
because the toll money is on the dash
and there’s an apple up there too
and missus jones is by my side
and richmond is just around the corner