Road Trip
I’m on a road trip with Ward and Evelyn, two
very nice California liberals who died years ago.
With us are their children in principal who can
be dialed in and out of manifestation according
to what’s convenient.
We aren’t headed anyplace
particular, just embracing the mundane joy of a
moderately-upscale small-city commercial district.
Ward and Evelyn bought a large Iranian rug made
in Mexico because Iran is too far away and I’m
driving distracted, trying to locate the store to
pick it up based upon the nationality of street signs.
I decide to put that off to address the larger issue:
Where do I dump my garbage?
I feel like I have a lot of it, though none is visible;
maybe I stored it or something
I tool streets
in my road trip rental, looking for ideas and
discover garbage trucks that catapult crap from
one dumpster into another dumpster like a slingshot
I’m awestruck, wish I, too, could
fling garbage with Patriot Missile precision
but I
don’t have a dumpster of my own
The hotel has one
lodgers can use, but to use it I have to fill out forms
with personal information
Near the end of the paperwork
I see Ward and Evelyn and their children in principal
luggage in hand
leaving me behind
Life
is a Dear John letter on a
fucking road trip I never wanted to take
and now God has all my personal information
(appeared in Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Winter 2022, photo by A.L. (unsplash.com)
