It’s the weekend
and aimless is the hour between nowhere and now.
The road peopled with under aged cars
looking for a place to drink.
They are terrible at inviting themselves.
And me and my Afrolutionists are laughing loud
against the quiet drone of the rain drizzling atop the hood of the car.
The fart of the windshield wiper licking the glass,clean.
The laughter of lips stained ox-blood red
from the back-seat
giggling at the mushroom trip across this vast city
looking for a party to crash.
This is your life:
Racing as fast as an open-air van;
You hair, square dancing with the wind;
Standing atop the buckie;
Hands clutched on to the ledge.
You wish that every day was like this…
Another car ride amongst friends.
The driver drunk at the wheel
But you choose not to fret for of course
You know the certainty of a back-seat…
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