Look me in the eye,
dammit.
I am trying to peel grapes,
or herd cats.
Driving through the snow
without four-wheel drive
and the radio playing
Christmas songs.
You won't talk,
you clam.
Why are you such a salty
thing, why aren't you driving?
I am white-knuckling the
cold leather of the steering wheel,
telling you please
be reasonable.
This isn't the end of the world.
Your hands are dry and cracking,
a little spray of blood on your knuckle.
Wish I'd done that to you.
This isn't over.
Your voice stony
and wavering.
The car swerves into the
thousands of headlights,
I take my foot off the accelerator.
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