Sapulpa preachers pander to static in
the dim reaches of Oklahoma morning.
This is where FM goes to die.
Ford lemmings spit dust across the highway.
Map check, asphalt vein, five miles.
Loose the tourniquet, ride the flow
past panhandle states of ruin.
The needle dips toward desperation,
a sharp U-turn sets the right
hubcap skidding into traffic.
Rusted blue tongue groans open—
"Still looking" says the world's largest peanut,
stamped and addressed, as it tumbles
through disheartened hands
into the gaping throat of home,
three days behind. My reflection
sneaks under the green and white
striped awning of the post office.
Pale and distant, we race down the turnpike
to meet again, west of here.
Created: Jul 21, 2010Document Media