the songs you remember from your mother's car

you remember
some of the songs
on the radio,
in the back seat
of your mother's car,
when she listened to music.

you didn't really pay attention
but
you were always going somewhere,
safe,
protected from the darkness
of beings.

and as the years have passed
inbetween now
and then,
everything has happened.

the bullies aren't kids anymore,
they become the bottle
and the cellophane baggie
that lead you to the bottom
of a squad car.

jobs have fangs,
feeding on nothing
but your veins.
and love is a chinese star
caught
on the jugular
of some of your years.

monsters are breastfed this way.

then
much later,
one of those songs
from decades ago
explodes somewhere
inbetween your brain
and celestial radio.

nothing is safe anymore,
except
for that thought
in the backseat
of your mother's car.

you remember this,
as you are drunk
and alone.