Deadline

The road ran quietly to the east
‘Chekhov and vodka’ we mused
ultimatums and gas prices

The road passed into the future
Melted tarmac double yellows
nowhere easy to stop

Our way was littered with conversations
Dark matter, flaky skin, charade film titles
we sat seat belt muted pondering fate

The road ran on
checkpoints and border crossings
the car was stopped, moved on, stopped again

We admired the view
A small hut in no-man’s land through the window
Silhouettes of police standing outside

Someone called on the land line
The guard in the office let it ring
No one picked up

by macd