alpine
Jay, I'm saying, trying to wake them.
'Jay' is what I call when I want to address both Jack and Jill.
They've been sleeping for sixty miles on a winding, bumping road.
I don't know if we're in Idaho or Wyoming, could even be Montana, the air of sleep is so heavy.
It's felt like rain since Boise, even under the cloudless sky.
Something is bound to fall, I'm thinking as I drive under overhanging roadcuts,
plunging into potholes too deep to swim. Wake up, kids, don't leave me the lone
vigilante in this barbiturate world. I glance at the glovebox where we carry no gun.
So many times I've wished I'd had a gun. So many times I'd've gone to prison.
Wake up, Jay. A clap of thunder finally shakes Jack loose from more pleasant dreams.
He closes his eyes, and snaps them open again, shakes his head. I'm falling, he says.
move on...