Aegis

I open my sunroof on a slant with the
late September grasp on all that was summer
risking rain and the cold that fat, sick women are
breathing at work.

Divine lullaby drumbeats will pull me from REM sleep
spittle of the Olympian plateaus. And
lead my slumberwalking hand to that Mustang clasp
Plastic.

Weak as a Ford factory secret that all and
the cieling will crumble in years to rust. And
summer's convertable idealisms gallop
with the wild weather;

A whistle before apathetic seals chomp
like Pandora's suitcase at my heel.
Parisian barbs divide on the plexi-glass
spared by a September storm.