Rough Running

Rough Running

 

The manor of death

begins with grey grins,

and in the fine lines

of the face.

 

A butterfly

looses it’s wing dust

in the exhaust

of an ill kept hearse.

 

So she sits on a bottle cap

waiting for the precession

to go by.

 

And she wonders.

 

How much dust,

sits in that box?

 

That box in the back of the

rough running car.