11 

Interstate 40 races by pitching a cold
March wind into my face as I’m strapped
to the backseat of a Chrysler convertible.
Muzzled with breeze I can only hear
intermediate words from the front seats where
driver and passenger, awkward pilgrims, yet
eerily parallel.
To the airport, then to polar opposites
of the country. I’m only there to drive the car back.

For a mildly temperate week I reside solely
in small villages of my own lethargic dreaming.
My eyes act as gates. My eyes are closed
gates, cemetery gates.
no visitors permitted today.
for we have a deceased escapee.

He drinks cold beer from a stained coffee mug,
listens to a discarded phonograph.
He can be found plodding around the rampant yellowed
grass of a skeletal garden. He’s skimming the sights
for inspiration, apparently, scraping ideas like the curds
from the cream.