Road Trip

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

ROAD TRIP by Sean Pendergrass


I want you to tell me your ghost stories

With words made of soil from your childhood backyard

Where your mother grew basil and you buried a hamster named Lexington


The rotting and breathing things fall out of your mouth

Onto a map to somewhere you think is safe

You say it looks like a coffee stain

But I know blood and gun powder when I see it


You drive with both hands clasped to the wheel,

Wishing you could grip onto mine

I hold a painting of a beached whale

But all you see is the static from the radio


We pull over to gape at the stars like a centerfold in Playboy,

Innocence wrapped around our necks

I look over and wonder how July perfectly combs your hair

When you’re only stillness and birdsongs


You try to say something romantic

But candles inside a car can be a fire hazard

Theres a matchbox in the glove compartment and

Each of us pretends we don’t know it’s there


You’re a collapsed lung and I’m a ruptured spleen

Adorned with denim and hints of vanilla

To play the parts of lovers


Maybe when we get back we’ll

Invite all of our friends over and celebrate

How we didn’t turn out like the Beatles or the Manson girls


You shiver at the thought of guests sitting on

The couch we screwed on before we left

I say we’ll put them into boxes and

Store them in the attic with the Christmas decorations

And books about places we’ll never go


Then you ask me to tell you my ghost stories

With words made of sidewalk chalk from my childhood garage

Submitted: October 28, 2020

© Copyright 2020 seantpendergrass. All rights reserved.

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Poem / Poetry