Route 666

The sparkle of a starlet’s borrowed diamonds

and the shine upon her shoes

take me back to Winslow, Arizona

and the road to Whitey’s blues.

The devil’s at the crossroads

with a contract and a pen,

I’ll race the Lil’ Bastard

‘til we three meet again.

(A glow-tipped cigarette

blew smoke rings under street-lights

bleaching out a harvest moon).

I’m not sleeping, I’m just dreaming

and not of lost Lenore,

but of boats against the currents

and the stranger on the shore.

The past belongs to anyone,

‘is’ ‘was’ will one day be:

it’s always today in Neverland,

but tomorrow belongs to me.