Up ahead there's a tree on the side of the road,
a small pine I noticed a year ago,
wrapped with tinsel and shiny red bulbs
reflecting the light from passing cars. †
The best damn joke there ever was,
nobody had bothered to take it down.
So now on my drunken highway it's always Christmas
and I open my other eye and watch the two trees fly by on my right. †
Tchaikovsky's Pathetique screams above the hum of the road
and in an instant I become the orchestra.
The trills of violins, the brilliant blare of trumpets
and the angry roar of my timpani
drift out of the window into the warm night air. †
I take a right onto Exit 7,
slow it down to 45, and pass the white sign
that tells me to keep on movingó
I scan the dark shadows of the intersection for cops,
trying hard to keep it between the lines. †
It's hard sometimes when the symphony's
over and we're almost home, knowing that drunk or sober,
together or alone, all that awaits us when our head hits the pillow
is the viciousness of our own thoughts.