Fuckheads

What I thought would be run-of-the-mill pavement turned out to be some sort of vaguely crunchy sludge.

That’s okay. I’m not driving anyway. 

I shift my weight to accommodate age- and hardware-addled hips

Crossing and uncrossing my legs,

One gliding up and over, running along the other’s calf in a move that might be provocative in another place, but in this case is simply necessity borne of cramped space

I no longer put my feet on the dash except on very special occasions

(I trust him on the road but no one else, and he’s some sort of cosmic magnet for the most brazen of fuckheads)

The trees pass by but more languidly, and I see that each has put on a snow-day character

Some fat like a mossy robot covered in royal icing

Others flinging their suds to the highway and sky alike in a frenzied rave

I think my favorites are those who pack their adornments as a gloppy Elmer’s glue tiara, diverting attention from a perhaps-more-spare-than-inspires-confidence midsection where trunks gleam around stubby once-were-branches

Backs straightened like the fucking royalty they are