DRUGS Poem: Drugs, by Ashley Parker Owens

Quarters from couch cushions,
dimes from junk drawers—
three gallons in Tommy’s rusted wagon,
odometer dead at 180,000.

Saturday nights, six bodies
crammed into that Buick,
dirt roads snaking through tobacco,
Tommy driving blind on acid.
“Helps me see the curves,” he’d say.

I claimed the back,
flat against worn carpet,
Kentucky sky wheeling overhead—
kaleidoscope god shaking stars
through holes in black paper.

Lynda curled beside me,
Herbal Essence and rebellion
in her hair, both of us
watching darkness roll past
like traveling through space.

Eight-track drifting back:
stolen Zeppelin, Floyd,
wind through open windows
mixing with distant cattle,
everything connected—

music, movement, chemical fire
coursing through blood,
the road breathing
beneath spinning wheels.

§

Route 62, past Morrison’s place:
transmission dies
near the tobacco barn.
Tommy turns the key
to silence.

“That’s that.”

We gather our remnants:
jackets, wallet, and
half-empty Mad Dog,
and abandon the Buick
like a stripped carcass.

Two miles home on foot,
footsteps synchronized,
still high enough
to find magic in asphalt,
still young enough

to believe the real journey
happens inside our heads
where stars keep spinning,
music never stops,
and tomorrow remains

uncharted territory.