Ride

Some kind of path
real or delusional
guinea pig in a hotel
thick smell of ganja
instructions, rhythmic
contractions, a dirt
truck lot and crows
talking in the branches
above the dumpster...

A diner, a straight and tall
hostess checking on the tables,
Polish, all the cakes made by her hand,
the owner, introduces me to them all
individually, not too sweet, she leaves
her number for me, an invitation,
with a tired smile, hopeful...

Next the rock shop across
the parking lot, healing rose
quartz, others looking for it too,
electrified hand shakes,
unabashed,  she calls herself a
visionary, says so on her card,
you walk out with a pyramid,
a smile, and a belief that something
just happened.

It's Spring,
something's shifting,
letting the car take you
where it will.