Stretch Limo

The autopilot on his stretch limo malfunctioned,
took him where he didn’t want to go.
From the sidelines it was a funeral,
black door after black door,
crepe on the windows,
lights on at midday,
bumper to bumper lumbering past the crosswalk,
and all in a single car.
He knew his best friends,
his only friends,
were the bulletproof glass
and immortality.
There must have been a driver of course,
there must have been a big guy riding shotgun,
but the real security detail was the security in the details:
the perfect itinerary,
the perfect camouflage,
the perfect barrage of drivel,
the perfect combo of radio silence and static
to escape detection.
The last I saw of him
was his hand reaching up to scratch my face,
scraping the glass off the window when he missed.
He could have gone into politics
but decided to be a nasty rich guy instead
and control it all from the back seat.
But the back seat ended up going where he didn’t want to go,
just following the front,
and he went with it.

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