All right, I haven't written in over a month, but it seems I'm back. Terribly sorry, I dont' think I've gotten everything back in order yet.

(a tribute to old cars, root beer, and convoluted love)

It's been five days but I
can still see your spittle
hitting the steering wheel
and the root beer leaving
an ugly stain on the
upholstery, my memory.

Old slope-backed '88 Chevy
reminds me of me
blasting the radio too
loudly for your taste
even though it was only
a violin concerto and
no one else cared anyway.
Every car ride is a blur,
either you or I would
always spill root beer
(I always said you could
drink your way through
armaggedon); imagine
how unromantic it would be
to spill club soda or water
in the middle of a blood-raising
fight, horns blasting and
tires squealing and sidewalk
peddlers placing bets.
Even Shakespeare would
laugh at such a spectacle.

Now you say you are
tired - mad - hungry?
I don't remember, it was
always something of that sort.
And only now I realize
I've always obliged you,
but what about the times
when I was tired-mad-hungry?
You still smiled in that
blurry, frigid way of yours
and patted the cracked-leather
seat beside yours.
And I would look down,
remember the taste of your
chapstick on the mouth of
so many root beer bottles,
brown stains in my brain
momentarily wiped out by love,
you'd whisper, 'sit down,
just for a second,'
and I would, just to hear
the fizz of that root beer
mingle with the crickets
and drive off into the night with you.

The last time I saw you
you had cleaned every last
spot from the dried-up leather.
It's been five days and
there is no more root beer
to cloud my memory.

At least I think I've got the wordplay back?