shambles

it left with the greyhound
from the 7-11 citgo
southbound-- cape girardeau
jackson, missouri jackson mississippi
warmer towns that dont get enough rain
for crops, riverrun and drawbridges

it's after curfew and the bus is gaining
on the hitchhiker-- 'what do you want?
a ten, a five and five ones?'
it's not a color-- it's reflection
perception of split light

the driver got back from the war
never sleeps and started driving
he lives between 7-11s
side of the road watermelon stands
and battered porkpie hats

snowstorms in kansas, texas
oklahoma and the mountains of new mexico
fill the seats with herringbone troubadors
and placekickers-- the rainbow seats
wear down on the way to boston
it's a long drive-- it's a drive
the landscape is the same shore
for both coasts

the air mattress waffle house campout glow
is everything between
the towns are left to preaching
busstations-- southbound for nashville
louisville and atlanta

the same part of town
crumbling brick carapace
in houston, amarillo, stlouis
and portland-- filled with warwhoops
and mennonites-- the bulldozers
in the one night seats wait for a connection
to greyhound heaven-- htey left love
three states back in a motel
swimming pool-- a breastroke prayer

she hasnt been to school since 6th grade
it wasnt like that when i was a kid
she got knocked up when she was 12
looked 25 in a red dress

the carhorns are the tenor sax
of john coltrane in the dirt
that pains the black from tires
and pitchfork tines worn to a shine

a shine that smells of well-water
on a too-hot afternoon covered
in sweat, scratches and sunburn
the strawhat and wind couldnt keep off

it's hard to think in numbers
of cups of coffe and granulated pure cane sugar
all-told it's an odd number
that counts on no interruptions

in an orange grawgahyde booth
feet up, ashtray balanced on knees
staring back at the redhead waitress
while you wait for the jukebox

as a reminder of pale skin
short nails, pigtails and reggae
in a summer spent
on correspondance and railroad tracks

bloodshot eyes left with a sliver
of icecream on the side
to buy some time or a ritual
an every night game of similar
railroad ties and coal horses

the nights fold into themselves
turn into one night
it's the same syrup on the table
that sticks to my cigarette pack
and slows the ashtray as i slide it across the formica
the same sociable waitress
gnawgahyde and smoke




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