My horoscope said
Today is a ten.
You’re driving; I’m riding
In a Cadillac convertible
Through the pouring rain,
Soaked to the skin, and more.
Lightening stitches through clouds,
Flashing like a mirror ball.
We got Benny Goodman on the radio
Until the station hisses
And fades out of reach.
Up ahead, headlights shine
Small promises
That break like dawn
Just beyond the hill.