Driving down a lane complaining to the moon I got no baby with whom to spoon. Contemplate if up ahead a fork? Activate defrost, snap fingers, tune radio – keep me company to get lost.

Driving through a June night down a lane. Thoughts of you – baby who cannot be – crooning to a daddy cicadalike over the radio fading, town falling behind – catch a face across windshield, squeeze on the wheel your behind.

Loafing down a lane complaining to the moon where lives a knife to slice time off space? Spread your song over this longing to belong in the service of the vice of moaning, oh, how nice to have a baby with whom to spoon, swallowing a narrow lane under a moon to which this witch can only complain.

Driving down a lane of a sudden through a fork – sign from a hell of a heaven posted through the head. Dodge overturned. Radio dead. Wheel stopped, all but.

Driving down a lane to the moon complaining on a higher plane.

Sweep the mind from my brain. Sweep me at the sky like the trash I remain. Keep me locked in a spaceship of a time machine rocketing this lane under a lopeared moon that never quite seems to hear me complain I got no baby with whom to spoon.

Wheel uninvented, radio OD’d, hear me vent, driving down a lane complaining to the no baby I got.