Perhaps one whod’ve set his lights aright would’ve driven right out of that cold black night. But the bug-eyed flivver went straight-the-gate right into the icy river. Glug, glug, glug. There he drowned, clawing, choking, Down, down, down. One last glimpse across the bay, there the flickered light never found.
Dimming, dimming, done.
poetastrophy 