On big fat tires dude's massive truck sat in traffic
Hungover as a crow
Face greased with stubble
Bending over ass-to-zenith
Eyes bugged, shifting, on a search for a bathroom
Palpitating curiosity, on the run from a bit torrent

Arms strained, they pop, his head a pouring torrent.
Induction, convexity, a coma stuck in traffic.
The road, all cars, the lines look like a massive bathroom
(Which it is if you're a crow)
Evolutionary zenith
In a universe of stubble

Where bumps between lanes stand up like stubble
Scraping tongue and hatching eyes before the torrent
Like sponge, with pores, pupils meet zenith
Pulsing a different era, a different form of traffic.
Spirals sported in the eye of a crow
A string of bizarre incidents involving the bathroom.

Long brown stains run down the walls in the bathroom.
The sink overflowing with presidential stubble.
On the lip is a feeding crow
Bleeding maple syrup, gallons of torrent.
It's head a pineapple, ants teem toward, black highway moving traffic.
Yet still we march on, eyes fixed beyond the zenith.

We plodded. Our conversation at a zenith.
Too entranced to reconsider, too intense to find a bathroom.
In his head are letters, his thumbs reflect their traffic.
Forgotten games of cards and a slam of the hand on the wheel, jostled, seatbelt scraping stubble.
Between his legs, a torrent.
That all too familiar feeling, where porcupine meets crow.

His thighs moist, alternate with prickling, a flutter like feathers, black pants, wet wings, a crow.
And still we march on, not yet beyond the zenith.
I say, "listen man." And then again, "listen listen listen." My mouth loose with torrent.
His eyes in his pants, cry loosed lips, unable to drive to a bathroom.
"Listen, man. Let's stop. I want to shave this stubble."
And then waking unto wetness, eternally born into traffic.