It's just the kombucha bottles, clattering and smattering

Causing chaos and mayhem in the trunk, clinking

Together, crashing til they shatter, until all you hear is

Fizzing, bubbling, the sour smell of fermentation seeps into

Your nostrils as the liquid seeps into the carpet

Out of sight, still in mind, glass shards carry little

Amoebas, clinging for dear life, it's alive as she fears

She may not be for long, his driving is affected by

The alcohol in his bloodstream and smoke thick on

His breath, he swears he'll get her home safe, that

He isn't drunk, he swears he's not drunk, just tired

The vessel that carries the poison must be affected

He is and the vessel they are both in swerves over

White lines, in and out of lanes, threatening to tip

Precariously over at every stop sign, he lays his

Chest on the horn, headlights glare as cars

Screech to a stop so he can pass by, he doesn't

Bother to use turn signals, sliding around the

Corner and crashing- the front window cracks

And drops of gasoline leak- into a white,

Picket fence. We're home.