No U Turn

Somehow the rear wheels
keep up with the front two. 
The steering wheel plays in my hand. 
Behind us, the churning clouds
of our dust fall on fences
and Queen Anne’s lace.

Something like a road
has a grip on our Goodyears,
persuading that bulging black rubber
to keep turning over
and take us along
to get someplace
we just call “away.”

In back of the last
chance filling station,
just past an abandoned motel,
the highway got swallowed in dust,
disappeared in the rear
view mirror, that mocking glass
like a One Way sign
stuck on our bug‑spattered windshield.

What we’re on doesn’t look like
a road anymore, so‑ill defined,
unmarked, untraveled.  It’s only a gap
on the county map, as vague as a myth
or a rumor.  It’s nothing but sand
getting lost under ferns
and the ferns fading
into the forest.

And yet, who knows?
What’s left to lose?
Some gas?
Some time?
Some rubber?

We can touch the truth
in whatever we find:
The county landfill
ripe with disowned odors
or a lake
that levels the sky.


Hear it:






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