Pink-orange

I pulled my car over earlier to scribble this down. It may be the ramblings of sleep deprivation, and it may be terrible. But I haven't written any poetry in a long time, and I hope this means I have started again. I am the neglected East Side the strip-mall-neon crackling   through my veins the screeching-tire track-marks I am rolling hills and city views   obscured by demented industry   seen by sunken shifty eyes On your drive home I am the screaming, shrinking   reminder of how good   your life is.