Picnic on the Highway

gingham, against the metal blurs that whiz by us. 
my smile doesn't waver, although my hair tries to detach itself from my scalp.
my dry-knuckled hands drag along that scarred grass, the one hurt for centuries 
it is another drought. 
food, plenty of it. pies splatter upon the picnic blanket.
fingers, dipped in honey and our mouths full of food
so much we barely can smile. 
days go on
nights drag through
we never move
the ebony sky falls
cars go by and by without giving a second glance
rain pours
wind tries to drag us down to hell
but the honey on our fingers sticks us to the ground
it rains
the grass becomes green
the honey is less sweet
windshield wipers persist against the downpour
but we,
we dance in the damn rain.