After listening to the opening riff of Hotel California,
he moans in the passenger seat next to me, arghhhh!
I suggest he take a chill pill. He groans again,
but it’s like the guy’s missing vocal chords and I can’t
understand a word he says. Don’t know what’s giving him such
heartburn. I park. He starts shaking, I mean really shaking,
back and forth like we’re in a carnival tilt-a-whirl
and he nearly overturns my Thunderbird.
I kill iTunes. By default, doesn’t he have to listen to me?
A cop pulls up behind my car, wants us
to step outside. I queue up the same music, open the door
hear the Sephardic sounds of a Spanish guitar,
and the rocking begins again. I wax apologetic.
He’s my golem.