Our Song My hands play piano on yr shoulders driving long distance road maps.

Yr hands on the steering wheel loosen under my music. Yr voice becomes jazz to accompany the piano-big long moans like Coltrane and short blasts of Charlie Parker. We make music from here to L.A. It doesn't matter yr radio is broken, punched out by yr fist rather than hit the bitching woman you used to drive with. We arrive in a city where our soft little song is hard to hear among the big band noise of eighteen wheelers and police sirens. But we know the harmonies, we have the beat tattooed on our hands like a musical score impossible to forget.