by Dot Wickliff
The crickets have stopped chirping;
it’s the middle of May’s darkest night.
A gravestone covered in shadows . . .
sits lonley under the moonlight.
Through the freshly cut grass
white-walled tires hunt and prowl,
they come to stop at the lonley stone . . .
with a crazed, primordial growl.
Its phantom engine revs—
Let’s drive, drive! it screams—
and six feet below the dirt . . .
eyes long-closed open and gleam.
His cold heart starts pumping,
this is the thrill he can’t resist,
the fiend’s desire quickens and swells,
like a bloated, necrotic cyst.
Quickly through the black dirt and worms
the fiend clambers up and then out,
for miles around the sounds echo:
Wild whoops, howls and shouts.
His yellow eyes widen, then settle
on his oldest, dearest friend,
the grey metal and paint still like new—
How many long years has it been?
Giddy lunatic behind the steering wheel,
the dark mirrors adjusted just right,
his skeletal claw finds the stick shift—
Be warned all who waken: We own the night!
He cackles through a demonic grin,
a rotten laugh boils in his rotten gut,
and as the tires start spinning . . .
The director yells “CUT!
Great work everybody,
let’s take ten and we’ll regroup.
Hey Hansen, Ramierez! What's this?
Put a fresh buff on that coupe!”