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Books on the way out
(with a nod to Glen Larum)
“My life is all I’ve got.”
—Richard Hugo in The Triggering Town
Sun on horizon, you read an ending
like Milton’s — gone to blindness,
looking for light. It’s time to flee,
drive highways west — feedlots,
cattle queued, barns, hay
freshly mown, slaughterhouse below.
Finally one runway, control tower
rising like a phoenix from fields,
promising hope, rest not far away.
You wend to town, cruise Main,
pass bars, one lonely church,
ancient stores late in rot.
A pickup rolls by, gun rack full,
pit-bull growling in back, seat-belt
painted on the driver’s shirt
to fool john law. Hotel flies
a huge flag. You stay quiet,
wish your belt would hide iPad
tucked in your pants, deep.
Too tired to sleep, wi-fi coming
next year, you walk the street,
search for books — Hemingway,
Paradise Regained, Silko, Alexie,
Lycidas, anything in ink.
Night brings black, town cafe,
muddy coffee, charred steak,
burnt toast — wheat, not white.
The grizzled cook serves a smile,
says bookstore’s at the airport,
past security, on the right.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
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copyrighted Timothy Pilgrim photo: Wyoming road sky |
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