Saturday, March 17, 2012

Rain Creek

Riding along
with my head on your shoulder
                          and feet out the window
the cotton woods rain white ashes
on the windshield of your Chrysler New Yorker
with the cigarette burns on the seats
We lose our selves on old country roads
that know each other so well not even
the locals really know where one ends
and the next begins
Out the passenger window
                      I can barely see
the green fields of next year's wheat
absorbing the last of this day's warmth
I watch you smoke with one hand,
the other draped around my bare shoulders
you steer with your left knee
and I wonder
where the ashes fall to
once they've escaped your fire

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