Back Roads IV - Dustin Vado

Backed into the corner
Of an empty parking lot
To consummate the striking 
Of a match into flame.

Even with the windows cracked, 
The glass still fogs from the breath
Of dry mouths, shaking from 
The nerves of being caught.

Lamps of the art studio
Shine for the owls
Nesting with their creations
While we roost for a moment
On a pony towel in the back seat
Of an economy car
At Wednesday’s midnight.

You can take your pick 
Of nesting grounds,
But know that home 
Is not an option.

Home is filled with hawks
Feeding on the easiest targets,

So run

To the hills
To a parking lot
To a back street without cops
Or a back seat without music

And nest in escape

A low hanging aerie 
That serves as home
Til the fog on the windows melts.