poem

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Diablo's hot Studebaker
roared down the road.
Birds rankled in the
peachtree.

Roared.
Niagara Falls.
Marilyn Monroe flees
the wetness between
her thighs.

Diablo left no tracks
on his way to the stars.
There was no whiskey
left for dreams.

Weeds bloomed
beneath the mailbox.
Flies buzzed around the oak
where Diablo died
in a cloud of smoke.

Authors Bio:
Ex-army medic. Atheist. I'm an amateur writer and poet.