The Static of Memory

The sun beats down on the dash,

blasting through the old Ford's glass.

I dig through the console, a slow trash

dive, past old napkins and rusted brass

keyrings. Find it.

A scratched, silver disc.

'Road Trip '03' in fading black marker.

Pop it in, risk

the ancient player.

The first song hits, a cheap sugar rush.

Windows down, wind ripping, just

the way it was. A sweet, quiet hush

before the crash.

Then Track 07 starts.

That specific, twanging guitar.

And the lie, heavy and sharp,

comes back. Not far

from the surface, just buried under

some good intentions, some youthful thunder.

Now it's all static, the road ahead blurry.

The old lie, still waiting, no hurry.