The only way to make sparks fly
is to slam yourself against the guardrail.
You may hurt yourself and others in the process,
but they won't mind.
If they did they wouldn't be on the highway.
I was never tempted to keep it at ten and two.
Between the ditches
with the shiny side up and the dirty side down.
I place the bottle beside me on the leather bench seat
and twist knobs until classical music consumes
my frozen rust bucket.
Every love story needs a soundtrack
and I don't own the cure on cassette.
Cut the headlights.
The fire will be visible for miles.
I reach to unlatch my seat belt
and remember that I never put it on in the first place.
'Fool, ' I mutter to myself
as I clench the bottom of the decaying steering wheel.
I take a final drag of my cigarette
and smile bravely at myself in the fractured rear view mirror
and I let the sparks fly.
I assume it was a favourite old banger... you were very attached to it..Good luck.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I am lost about sparks flying, I hope it's a metaphor.