Under the overpass

underscoring the overbite
of a centuries worth of instant camera flashes
we wobble but don't fall down.

eclipsed by a honda accord convention
we dripped loningly into the pool of least resistance fighters

overly cautious,
we boldly stayed quite about the yelling horse man in the last race
(Nostradummas was clearly talking about Howard Dean in that last quatrain)

fretting about the guitar strings
we played our last hand like a muted trupmet

but we played flat notes on paper pads with broken pencils and dormant dorm room drama's.

dear.