"P-Funk Passengers"

Sparks of hot iron spurt from brute force of blacksmith hands.
He squeezes the orange ashes—the last remains of inflamed tobacco,
Twisting the stub between two handsome fingers
Outside a one inch crack in the passenger side window to let
Backseat riders observe tiny firefly flickers float against a midnight backdrop.

The driver measures the moldy peach colored moon—his hand against the windshield
To discover that it is James’ Giant situated up there, far too close to be so far away…

We are a band of mid-week travelers with post-concert eyes,
Drooping energy on the venture back from an inner-city venue.
Six of us stuffed in the trusty forest green family of a van
And stale. Stale from the lingering smell of leftover French fries
Inside greasy bags discarded beneath our seats.

The harmonica sifts through all four corners our world,
“Piano Man” spilling from speakers, the lyrics landing heavily upon our chests.
Pass the piece around. Keep time with an open palm on your knee;
And the green from the volume dial only grows brighter.

A solitary orange light illuminates the shadowy silo beside the highway
That slices an Iowa cornfield in two.
The eerie farm nightlight encourages subtle hallucinations—
Or perhaps it is the exhaustion getting to me.
I know I am too tired when each mailbox begins looking like
A sleepwalking man threatening to wander in front of the car…

The front seat men are still alert,
And I grow used to the occasional blast of cold air spilling
In from the rolled down window.
They are sharing another smoke to stay awake.
I lean sideways and count white dotted lines to fade asleep.

2:22. “Make two wishes,” he says.
So we stir with mumbled responses, remove blankets from over our heads.
For we are all still whimsical children,
Wishing upon the face of a clock.