Doris’ heart pumps under my tired spine, her faithful diesel pusher humming out a beat all it’s own. She hates the city, she prefers sprinting down wetted back-roads at a soft 70, swaying back and forth. I’ll miss the rare groupie who would let me lie still on top of her while Doris shot through untamed curves.

This aft bed has seen lot’s of fans, sometimes the loud screwing covered up the city’s oily din. But I have my real woman laying on the bed now, facing the moon, her golden hair tangled up in the tailored tattered threads of my jeans. She’s the only one who gently undresses me. The others shred angrily at my seams, like the vicious music I play.

I love having the windows open, watching the moon behind the power lines and waiting for me on the other side of every tunnel.

“mmm, moon”, she points with smoke.

“We’re taking Doris!” I shout forward.

I watch her twist her butt, like a period, in the ashtray perched on my crotch. I’d finally made up my mind about us, after all these miles of years.