The ride down Nostrand,

colored with the last few hours

of the seventy-degree day

Is easy.

88.3 fills your car, floats up

And out your front windows.

People walk too close to cars flying by

Not bothered…

Gold drips into your Tacoma and on faded storefront signs

“jesus” used to “save”

But the cross’s broken

Or rotted

Or peeling now…