Passed a dark-haired beauty on the freeway with her cheek pressed against her hand, her eyes were on the road, clearly her mind was not. Watched flashes of white lines make strobes of the dark globes behind her long lash, this lass is the reason cars crash. But if we smash without clash, her voluptuous may enjoy a sumptuous treat with me. Sounds serendipitous to me. We shall see.  So after slammed hatches, shouts of whiplashes, photo flashes and sent faxes. Fender bent, I’m spent. I still feel love has no accidents.


-Clint DeCamp

Published by capnclint

Poet, father. Trying to create meaningful work and leave the world a better place.

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