Hello I made a poem. Poems are weird.

“It’s just 100 pictures to the end of the world”
she leans down while we’re crusin’
tells me to take it real easy
and when we’re turning in an
unexpected direction
camera out, shutter down
one by one flying out
counting down the
(ninety nine to go)
CLICK of a
mechanical contraption
she’s yammering on
waving; but you know if you shake
ink’ll run like blood all over
hands stacking paper, counting
(one not unlike this,
never that twice,
could have three good tries,)
she sees it all just
outside her passenger side window
dreams scattering in dust
breathless rambling tally
“but this is my stop.”