Robert Verdon, #400, get your motor running

refurbished red convertible

speeding down the coastal fringe

on a milk highway

isolated pillar of finance, wind in his thinning air

music tastefully softer than the roar

scarf a-flutter, no Isadora

between girlfiends who crave his much-owed money

foot to the floor and contemptuous

of automated cars, staring over the cliff’s edge