A short cop’s frown’s loud talk

slaps red & blue on my white face.

Old mouthwash, a want to scold.

 Flashlight hiss:

“Don’t need to tell me how many; I know.

I know where you’re going. I know where you’ve been.”

 A dark dry hand fans

left: red-eyed car shepherds in blue uniforms

herd bleating drivers under a canopy of overpasses.

Some yell, some laugh far off. Bleating drivers,

most inside their cars, are pardoned away.

Three skin-flaked cops’ lower jaws choose me.

right: white knuckles of swollen friends

freeze in the snoring Ford Fiesta.

Short breath, oil drip.

The eyes do well, but the sound of cars above

beating through the interstate cracks

echoes a pulmonary beat:

 Blood beats eye,

 Blood beats eye.

like the bass beat I shouted over for another.

A skin-flaked lower jaw grunts, “Drive safe,” and grants

the privilege of the heater on with the windows down

while the Fiesta, champion of the interstate, pummels over

overpass cracks bumping beats along the way to more

Belgian ale.

    white

Matthew Armato can be reached at [email protected]