Topgear, Fer Real! — a poem

Bad news crew on a road trip,

not slowing for the infrequent dip;
out drop-top cruising on a starry
night.  Passing

wheatfields, crows startle,
parrots gossip, the humming-
bird drinks from thorns — time

flies.  Though we melted
down the enslaving clocks
in honor of unreality —

we have time on our side.
The crazed Spaniard riding
shotgun calls out directions
to the driver. “Quel?” He lends
an ear, but does not comply.

And the two women enthroned
in the back seat are keeping

their peace.

So, this is my first response to TheSundayMuse (Sunday Muse #131), and my first response to any prompt in a long time.  At least, my first that I’ve bothered to post.

This piece only plays well if you know the players well.