Trip

A detuned radio,
on the motorway.
Marylin munroe,
at the roadside cafe.
Yellow wall paper,
and a dukebox dime.
She's gonna make it
she'll be fine.

A trace on the dashboard
and ash on the seat,
lips of red,
a puff of heat.
Windows down,
stuffy air,
i love you too,
i cut your hair.

Baby we're away.
Maybe no one can find us here.