Driving like a maniac trying to outrun our last fight
but, no matter how fast I drive, the fight sits right next to me in the passenger seat
telling me to slow down.
Racing west, as the sunset smoulders smoke and ashes on the other side of the horizon
we can’t see so far down the road to the dead end
speeding towards the dying light without an air bag
hoping if I drive fast enough, we’ll be able to catch it, save this fading painting from extinction.
How church for some is their only insurance policy
with no money back guarantee
I write to give some semblance of permanence
to believe I’ve resuscitated this sunset
given it mouth to sunset in a poem dedicated to it.
Let poetry sing to life that dying light
driving up the bridge with you
straight into the sun’s latest masterpiece
clouds the colors of Fall leaves swirling
softer than a Monet sky
painting over the fight
as you take my hand and say it looks like driving in heaven
and for that moment I loved you more than ever
til we crested the bridge
and it was all down hill
and heaven fell like house lights before the rising of the curtain.