Now Johnny pays the toll
trolled by a hangover,
no time for sarsaparilla
in his mind’s hoosegow,
shooting back tequila.
//
Now Johnny pays the toll
the bridge is a rusted spine,
over a river of copper and oil
where the ghosts of the union,
are shooting back tequila.
//
Now Johnny pays the toll
the ticket-taker has no eyes,
just a slot for a silver coin
and a grudge that tastes like salt,
shooting back tequila.
//
Now Johnny pays the toll
the road is a ribbon of ash,
winding through a town that forgot
how to spell its own name,
Shooting back tequila.
//
Now Johnny pays the toll
he traded his watch for a map,
drawn by a man with the shakes
who swore the exit was heaven,
shooting back tequila.
//
Now Johnny pays the toll
the gate swings open like a jaw,
and the silence of the valley
is the only thing left to swallow,
shooting back tequila.
Rated for Everyone
Shooting Back Tequila
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Atticus, this feels like a small road myth, each toll another surrender, the imagery rough and bright in that way you do so well.
P.S. I like to shoot Tequila, straight with a slice of lime. Then a nice cold Stella. 🙂
I write for enjoyment, only, and I like to play with words.