She’d re-packed the Honda late last night, after she drove her friends home from the bar,
Laying down to sleep when she got the call, across town without a paddle they were,
Went home early for a reason, all for naught, spring is the season, and she sprung,
Reckless with the keys, tossed the shit out in the yard, kicked it through the door,
Pedal to the floor.
Heart cry obligation.
4 days should be enough time away to starve the fruit flies until they’re dead and gone,
6 a.m. start should be enough time to drive as far as Atlanta before she needs to stop,
Friendly drunk vomit stain on the passenger door, rolled down the window last night,
May the wind sweep some away, may the highway grime memorialize the rest,
The wicked don’t rest.
Get in the car.
Alabama was where she’d left herself behind 10 years ago in her grandfather’s Chevy,
Dark daisy with a permit at a graveyard taking the photo to win the photo contest,
He said I can’t take you but you don’t need a license ’round here, go win the gold,
Breaking the law for the sake of art is about as noble as they come,
Go on, rebel, run.
Laws turned to promises turned to hearts turned to honesty turned to fingers turned to
Intuition and the art stayed art and then became the journey to the art defined as loosely
As her aimless, retrospective, circa ’01, losing artist’s statement.
But stayed her rebel run, wicked in rest, she needed the pedal to the floor
Not the journey or the art but the choice to leave it all,
Without caveats or restriction,
And the choice to come back
Which she chooses every time
With open arms
And a sponge for the passenger side door.