coffee spoons and roadside diners
20 songs 66 plays
disguises bought at that thrift store behind the church, the one we passed everyday after school. it isn't summer yet, but the air is hot and everything feels too close, too confining, too everything. rented car with a dent on the passenger door, you pull up and say "get in." maybe we will change our names on the way, take our new monikers from the fifteenth street sign, or the name of some neon-lit diner. you rest your head in my lap while i drive, reaching up to light a cigarette and flip to another station. the music is all over the place. the music is without a map, too. it is all part of our roadside disguise.