Black eyes extinguished on the spot –
wrong side of St. Andrew's cross.
A horn-ripping wail; a brakes-burning scream.
Slow motion re-runs immune to passing years.
From counseling to therapy; from sermon to rehab.
Retired from driving - now works as a flagman.
To outlast the Sunday he drops in the Golden Rat.
Behind the silver wheel - he bets it all on black.
Life is like a train
you sometimes miss the lane
you sometimes melt the tracks
you gain what no one lacks
and long for a better day
Red murdering train #69;
she couldn't affect the Grand Jury in the sky.
To compensate the loss - she used to drink for a while;
embezzled her ideals; now enjoys being numb.
She's writing fantasy in her excess time -
misbehaving goblins and gay dragons make her smile.
She ends her lonely weekends with casino lemonades;
her feelings filed to "cases lost"; she bets it all on red.
Life seems like the law
sometimes makes no sense at all
you sometimes pay the bail
and wait for the skies to change
into a better day
He wryly remarks above the slowing wheel:
"The odds are pretty good one of us will win;
I really can't remember when April was so sultry".
She accepts the small-talk with untrained words of flirting:
"We could cool our feet in a fountain just outside;
maybe we could talk or maybe count the stars?"
He smiles; her bluff is called; they don't stay to see
when the sly acrylic bullet nestles on the green.
The Earth is just a ball
that spins with no control
upon the wheel of fate
you sometimes lose all bets
but win a better day
Author's Bio: About me? Well, ol' Jeb likes coffee, music, people, and liquor. Lives in Croatia. Has great legs.