"Buckle up sweety,"
you lace through the smoke.
Don't pretend to protect
pruned lungs you invoke.
I cradle myself in
(The perfect little gent),
don't flatter yourself,
you're a friggin' accident.
Essance of aspestos
Spun in dark glass
suggests an image
that frankly won't last.
Shaking palm on the clutch,
leathered toes to the floor;
"Is your side clear?"
said brightly towards my door.
Whether by hope or by hate
A canary car was there
I fixed this vehicular tool
with a grateful, pleading stare.
"Yeah Mom," I assured,
You began to back up;
Humming fused with smog,
fumes of scotch-stained cup.
Tense as the Devil
when from lost Heaven sprung,
I breathed for the impact
Of yellow meshed lungs.
Fate blinked, and alas,
'Doomed' wasn't deemed
a worthy title, yet condemned
was upcoming Oak sea.

