Driving through Dan’s cesspool world

In the icy red light of a left blinker
along the Mass turnpike,
snow glows argon pink.

The want of just-peace is a rest
stop in Charlton, you say (softly),
"That's love man, that's love"

The happy hectoring of hemlock
shared beside a moldy marble headstone
along the endless verdant cemetery          

The need for sacrifice  is a teardrop
before suicide but after despair,
"That's love man," I say to you, "that's love."

Night becomes rain. Cold and driving
snow becomes slush. Time reveals
the sharp blades of grass.

Still, daylight comes with a haze of newsprint
and the wordless mush of waiting,
simply waiting you say, "That's love man"

I see the headline in The Sun about the teacher
raping the student carefully after
a bad day in his quiet calculus class

The bitter sip of innuendo where faith
was misplaced (maybe) "I mean God,
he says, 'that's love?' ... man."

The Club Diner is empty except for our damp coats
and the odor of our soaked socks squishing
in the ground down old booth.

My last piece of bread sops up the yolk
but my soul still starves for just a smile.
"Sunny side up, that's love, man," you deadpan.

I don't know, I don't know. I get up.
Nod at you, get in the car
and leave you there, not knowing.

The road splits, Centerville or
the Highlands. There's no real choice.
fate is such a sad way to digest eggs.

The sun breaks through, warm
against my cheek. I'm still heartless, but
that's love man, that's love.