The crate of dark glass bottles rattle in the back seat of the Ford Model A. Quick sirens wake up the backroad. Dust is the sidekick that's saving the day.
We yip and holler, adrenaline in our veins. Tommy shoves a cannon out the window as Ricky drives wildly. Johnny tips back a shot from his flask, and Charlie laughs like he's had too much giggle water.
And I clutch the seat for dear life.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 3
Poetrythird poem collection. they aren't in any particular order or anything like that, and after 100, there will always be a new one. if you've been here a while, I'm sure you know the drill. now, about the cover. it was a random Thursday, and an old fri...
