the hitchin’ post / driving to prison on 1-57

 

the mists of Shawnee ferns smell

like triangle shaped chicken chips in the octagonal lot

beneath my face, invisible

peering above an air conditioner cubicle, brown, obscuring

I am not watching much

humble yellow weeds

but I feel the scurry of threat

someone in the truck may see my nipples

I tug the sheer curtains closed with a plastic pulling wand

precarious rings catch and the impermanence is exposed

again and again like a cut in the meadow

it is more difficult than being in a fixed room alone,

a vacant room alone, residues of foot,

the petite happy hour wine chalice once glistened here

cupped by the smothering hand of Mr. Clean

the vegetarian burrito is a slop of all of the sauces

I place it onto my tongue and feel