Frisco Blues

By Abigail Lee

Your voice, echoing
in my spine, toes curled
to a point, hair thrown
out the broken window.

Metal beams groaning,
stretching to the space
above us all, gulls clapping
their wings as they dive.

The bay gurgles its
grievances, who would
do such a poor thing?

The sunbeams on the dash,
radio fizzing, salt thrown
like the hair to the sea.