Ben Folds in November - a poem

This moisture coalesces on the windshield
to form something that resembles
a fingerprint in the sledge-slide movement.

This could be four, now, about a car
staggering down a highway like a drunk poet
in 15th Century Persia.

Inside, everything is cleaned and polished,
no lunch sack mountains, crevasses,
or canyons to connect us, just a long,
lone place to jump from.

I chuckle and recall the last time I was here,
my sore tooth and harsh opinion toward Anime,
the old woman miles away, and dying.
It's my feet tonight, though, a pair of bad shoes,
and impatience to be at the end of this distance.

It seems I still keep the same crooked frame,
a series of disembodied voices unvoiding
this present darkness like the stunted dials
barely defining her face,
an existence that falls back to being
from the brink of fading.

She's worried and asks me to slow down.
I do, this rain as fierce as ever.

We'll all be there, soon, after blistering the wrecks
down our lost streets, to watch Ben Folds
make bad words seem like watercolors.
Men will sell pizza out of their trunks afterward,
leaving us hungry enough,
but not sold.