My friend, Kurt, and I

cruise at 110 down a small stretch

of our glorious nation’s 

arteries,

made fatty and cramped

by the gluttonous years.

My view is accented by 

Kurt’s blood-curdling screams, 

intermittent with his barely intelligible questioning 

of me (or you, or anyone really): 

“WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?!!” 

But I give him no answer.

Because I don’t have one,

and because he’s dead, anyway.