| highway in new mexico i stop for gas, standing alone biting cold whipping through my bones like wooden floorboards on a bitter gray morning hafta fill up, pee, buy more cigarrettes old man stares at my shorts he wonders where i came from i tell him it was warm when i got in my car this morning |
| baker city, oregon check into motel 8 off interstate 84 sit and flip through unfamiliar channels watch the rain and sleet fight with the window trace the tattered edge of the blanket that has obviously seen many nights of truckers and whores pull it tight anway cold doesn't know the difference between you and i |
| somewhere near the washington state line sky is massive and blue, wild and untouched so fierce it burns my eyes if i keep them open too long windows down, air tastes cold fly down the highway, pass lonely truckers heading home it's been so long since i've seen snow radio's going out nothing but fuzzy jazz and some man screeching about his god on and on they go, but i just smile 'cause i know they don't really know the answer i'm headed home |
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| headed home if you listen...you can hear me grow |
| all poetry under copyright Lauren Stallings 2009 |
| *content warning* |
| their blinders are their weakness but they, they are my saving grace |
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