Riding Shotgun
The highway is lined up
with festooning lights
fading every taken mile
I was riding shotgun
shaking my eyes from fake stars
and the bloated moon hanging
with a taunting repose
I moon to go back
into the downtrodden drive
but what is a night of splendor
under transient scintillation
from the white lights
tossed in the highway?
But I rode the shotgun
hauling out jackknives and wings
as I moon over the most distant musing
unbending backward to the reflection
of a self-inflicted deterioration
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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