The Ghost of Jack Kerouac
Slip into
the driver’s
seat start
the engine
pop a
tiny
white pill.
Coast to
coast without
sleep, the
ghost of
Jack Kerouac
anchored deep
in the
blacktop.
Slip into
the driver’s
seat start
the engine
pop a
tiny
white pill.
Coast to
coast without
sleep, the
ghost of
Jack Kerouac
anchored deep
in the
blacktop.
Filed under poems & short jabs