Behind The Wheel Of My Dead Friend's Car Poem by John W. McEwers

I can still smell the decaying, crusty, stale
smoke from your dirty, yellowed butts
sitting upright, downright, and leftright in the ashtray by the dash.

Your mouth was on them, Robert.
Not too long
ago.

Your mouth was on them inhaling death's vapors
by the mouthful.
Breathe in and let the smoke fill you.
Breathe out and let the death slowly kill you.
Going sixty in a twenty was the only way you lived.

It's so weird that our butts are in the same crevice.
This Chevy's old and the cushions are failing.
My butt sinks in to the hole left by your butt.
We're sharing a butt hole. Man, Robert, this is weird.