Might As Well Jump

I don’t know how it happened.
It just did.
The shit was random, original.
Life changing.

David Lee Roth needed a ride
to his storage shed.
It was off of Ironwood Rd.
He gave directions.

High kicks and screeches like my
dad’s Impala highlighted the way.
His cellophane pants melted.

We survived on Dramamine, oranges,
and flat cola in a plastic cup.

The cup reminded me of kegs, fights.

David Lee Roth said, “Quitting someday.”
He lit a Marlboro. The cerulean smoke
rose from the cherry. It was starving.

It swallowed him whole without regard
for the seatbelt or the law.