Southern Drive

It’s a single fallen white aspirin in an empty cobalt sky
The only white button on a newly washed hyacinth sweater
A puncturing nightlight against bonded matte wallpaper that
Charlie can stare at for hours as he rides; doing 95 on I 95

The high beams swatted bugs, grilling them on the grill
as Marc Anthony’s voice cascaded out of the jagged radio
Eighteen-wheelers shot by like toothed pool cues that have
been thrusted forward through Jenny’s two copper fingers

Hotels, diners, gas stations, rest stops became pins on a map
two spilled decks of glossy cards that drizzled along the highway
Green banks of trees applaud because they only had 15 hours to go
Despite it all, the jeep was mushed forward by two hands over tired eyes

By Amaury Genao

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