Concerto of doom.

Driving on a dirt road,
the sun, a brazen signal,
tries to convince me
it's close to summer

that I should be basking
in the warmth of April adagios

but instead, I think about
the weeds romancing bark,
the exhaust pipe, and the
numerous leaky ends.

I think about my tendons
and the absence of blood
and the gasoline fumes.

The car stalls.

I sit and listen to Bach,
the oboe and violin
dancing around the truth

while the mosaic of my mind
illustrates all the ways
I could gracefully exit.