JOYRIDE

Pull your hand back in the window, Sister,

there’s no more breeze now to surf, given

that BabyGirl here has just seen fit

to drive us into a ditch

while in pursuit of her next victim,

naked and smushed under the right

front wheel, innocent or not.

I don’t know what possessed us

to let her drive down

to the corner store in the heart 

of town when she can barely see

over the dash, and now she’s crashed

and, what’s more, mashed 

one of our own into near-fetal trash.

I suppose now we’ll have to call

some curbside service, have them haul

us all out of here, to then dispose

of our entire affair in some green fashion;

maybe bundled and barged

into recycled waste, then anchored as reef

at the bottom of some far-off ocean.