then I thought I stand to steer
on the backseat watching out for her
playing thimblerig with my marbles
whirling wayward off my cozy cushion 

lying in her desolate sedan 
on roads running close sinking in
potholes bumping in bends bare
trees too swiftly swished away 

troubling tricks jolt my ejection
seat unseeded in the race restless
moves on no avail ability now
the motor stalls still in the dead-end

The prompt in my writing workshop was, you guessed it, trickster.

The organizer of the writing workshops here in San Diego has contributed two poems to this blog: Ashen grey and The flower of thought.