Headlights dead, fluids bleeding
a neon trail for the hounds.
Brakes, rusted beyond repair, are not an option,
so rocket beyond control.
Scrape past the slow, barely ahead, chase the
distant lights, the rarer vehicles,
born with functioning radios,
lucky enough to be maintained,
wishing you were born that way, wishing
you were lucky enough.
Be careful as you plummet,
for others are there, all dark
on the highway, all trying
to make up the missing mile, all hoping
to catch up, all willing
to pass by the wrecks.