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)