We drive through as if we see
more than a few dotted yellow lines
and a few inches of crumbling black

Pieces of pine trees emerge,
emulating an outline for our
path traveled.

Eyes ahead, we sometimes spare eachother glances.
Our tattered clothes rest upon yellow bits of foam
poking through, against us.

His weathered, nicotine hands grip
the pin pricked pattern of
brown, leather
wheel.

One denim and grease leg is stead to the floor.
The other leg rocks side to side
keeping in time with the tune
on the radio.

One hand rests his head
lids half open, four ‘o clock shadow running late
lips half parted in concentration on the early am mist
parting for the boat front.