Void of banal chips

Focussed on a sweep

Garnering a queue of tips

From the shmo who stripped you in, too deep

The evening’’s gone, a week’s worth

Even pizza’s not an option

The car keys amplify the solid dearth

Of any other action

Behind the wheel, the tires squeal

And the night picks up the slack

The car kicks in in instinctive reel

And the boy runs down a reflecting stack

The line of neon pylons scatters

Like nameless cards dealt to players

The illusion of a moment shatters

And the prospect of the bumper dares