some microwaved soup and chocolate milk
an ill-suited plastic spoon, not much of a belly
dreams of third coast conquests
and downriver runs into each other
there's a special quality to the air on the road
and an even weirder sense of loss within the constant hum
in lot lizard country, the safety of trees is scant, if at all
that feeling of lonesomeness seeps into every pore
the road is a lonely companion, without much talk
it sits quietly by your side, judging and mocking
i really only wish to show you the things i've seen,
if only momentarily; a quiet coyote patiently
waiting for a lull in traffic; clouds parting swiftly
stars poking their curious, faint light, dancing
in the distance, the same distance between me and the world
the moon, the sun, and the galactic cannibals that abound
i want to tell you about the 80 dreams I lost on the east side
of kansas city, to a man named Paper, or how that crusty hippie
crushed whatever desires i still had midthrough memphis,
and how Floyd, fortunately, pulled up next to me and secured
my load, and how i saw his truck in the oasis of the plains,
tucked in between so many others, noisily idling and coughing fumes
so many wants turned into so many other things to crave
unable to settle for the slow going, with the white Tesla
zipping by, followed by a Porsche, black of course, and with
Hawaii plates... what are the chances of that?
of a murmur of starlings soaring aloft like all the desires
i laid at your feet in offering, before leaving once again
how they soar in unison, much like the voices in my life
quietly morphing into all the names i've been called
all the little affectations of that awkward longing
you must think it's no big deal, to dream a house
a wraparound chain of commitments that end up
in a plastic bowl of microwaved soup
an ill-suited plastic spoon, cheap formica
and a sideways look from the attendant
some absences are heavier than others
even if they fill the very air you breathe
out on the road, breakfast is not limited to food
