Driving to work,

Howard Stern and ba ba booey.

Sipping my hot Starbucks.

Laughing.

Until Eddy Murphy starts staring at me.

I try the windshield wiper washer.

Again.

Again.

Until I run dry.

Eddie.

Won’t.

Go Away.

I hang a right at mile marker 257.

Tires shreak.

Cappuccino flies out my window.

I fly through the green trees.

Flipping.

Ground.

Sky.

Ground.

Sky.

I lie in smoking wreckage.

Ticking.

Hissing.

Sirens and dogs howl,

closer, closer, closer.

The face haunts me,

his face,

his face.

HIS FACE!

Eddie, please.

Get.

Out.

Of.

My.

Head.

Or at least off the 405.