Georgia

Red sunset swirls color of old orange flames as the car dives between the line.
Hostages to fortune cower in the backseat.
When will night fall?
Draining the dusty throat on broken glass bottle that the mop man picks up,
After stone cold negro trance mutters with broken lip savoir faire “Hey muthafucka, hey.”
Cleaning the muck of the floor and sliding the peppers down your throat,
and heat curls like an untamed cobra into your armpits,
And the darkness in here is broken by jukebox titterings and rumble of
old pinball games as we slide tables together for pool of food.
But outside. OUTSIDE. The psychopath leers into the peach sunset. Peach, peach, everything is peach. The sky is peach, the earth is peach, the dusty old eighteen wheel monster silhouetted against the rays of flame is peach. Where are we going, sliding over the pitted, cratered surface of this non-terrestrial world, and you tell me about hotels in outer space?
This mission is over.
All color has been drained to pink.
The heat is all we have left, and the sunset.