untitled(for now)

I'm not sure
about calendars and miles and miles of highway driven
cooler packed, sleeping bags hidden beneath boots caked with red clay.

there's a tupperware full of little things you don't want to lose
green hair bands, obscurely labeled cds--
"champagne"
and post its that remind you
sharing is caring
these snacks are for everyone.

dead bees hide in the corners of the back window,
a notebook that used to be blue
is bleached to reflect the sky that would be
if you didn't do all your driving at night
and all your parking spots are user friendly.

these wheels were meant for roads lined with little fences, white lines
where the trees are so tall, it feels like a green tornado tunnel
and the windows rush like trains in your brains
and the windows rush like tornado

ripped out the trees
smashed the car
still have a tupperware full of little things you'd rather have lost.