The Indy 500
Potters fortune and turmoil resides in the potluck.
Star struck, gazing into the eyes of not giving a…
We used to be people you know.
Developers of ingenuity, cast members of the sequel you know.
Somewhere between the pursuit of happiness and chasing the paper we realized the road forks and loved ones stand aside like yield signs.
Friends come and go like fair weather.
Family members are passengers along for most the journey like bugs squashed to the radiator grill, license plate, possibly improving the aerodyn.
Acquaintances are like street names, familiar for a time.
Headlights shine, hopefully the way is still bright in front.
Synonymous with hope,
Bad decisions wear on the suspension and baggage never leaves the trunk.
Occasional rodents and pedestrians will deter momentum, blown filaments are not the funk.
Kids are like the engine, necessary and dire in need of maintenance. Soul mates are the fuel.
Potholes and speed bumps… enemies and fools.
Ambition serves as the destination but impulse alternates with gps.
Promises with tune ups and expectations of oil changes, keep us going longer, hitch free until we blow tires on nails,
Minor setbacks of plans being foiled by loved ones but on purpose.
Hail slams on windshield like kinsman cutting support from beneath; disapproval, disbelief, dissociation and disillusioned.
These guys used to be pit crews, drilling onto us; words of validation, valiant variants of verification, 500 laps to destination.