US-74 W
Whirling dervish, I spiral
across the Appalachians.
Car revs over mountain bulk.
I negotiate the hulking shoulders
with a determined squeal, blasting
shameless into the gulping night
while some dusk-driven Reverend
screams from the dash, AM 720;
his voice stretches high, intoxicating
as the bends I hug, ducking
slickly between lanes. Speedometer
needle crawls past seventy—
jaw set, teeth clenched.
The murky arrival of evening,
cold beckon of swollen hills,
this inkwell of isolated road—
a damning myriad of prospects.
Swerving toward the garbled
screech of the preacher: Keep
your hands on the wheel; for
God’s sake, keep your eyes
on the road.
howthemockingbirdsways 
Another fine upstate ‘ink-well’ evening’s greetings, dear fellow poet…
(or is it poetess?)
Nice work, I gotta good devilish chuckle out of it! Your dark satirist vision is much appreciated, especially the ‘immortal’ words of ‘immorality’ of “Mr. Mojo Risin'” as punch-line! I like the ironic delivery of the lines woven in there. This piece is very well seen and you’ve an excellent mastery of fine vision for picturesque adjectives. Rock on.
Cheers, WordPress mate!
& Thanks for your interest in my ‘Wordsworth’ as well.
~ J. Catte
k.a. ‘Lord Caldwell’
thank you very much.