You've got a little place by the freeway,
low rent. You're not a baseball cap balding guy
anymore. You're all hairplugs,
playing horseshoes in the back lot
or sitting in a lawn chair on a square of concrete.
Race you to the back woods.
Ice-box traincars are ticking by.
You say it aint that far.
We've been sitting in this parked Dodge,
pretending we're outta this trash heap,
this middle of somewhere.
The bucket seats are drying in the sunlight,
the old windows don't roll up. It's warm.
The ceiling is sagging. Baby, you say,
take that skirt off.
That's no way to see the wilderness
growing around you
It's been non-stop, all week. Traffic.
But now you've got a toolbelt
attaching your torso to your legs.
The screen door needs tightening.
It bangs in the storms, when the lightning
fucks electric and the clouds boil over.
Over the fence, the sound of cars,