a poem by Justin Hyde
parallel and slack of ambition in a truck stop booth
crawls down my arm as faces on the overhead tv hustle styrofoam hot dogs. feelers twitching he surveys the human shapes: lost and abandoned, driftwood riddled with hope. he glances up through the window at the sun: clubfooted and anemic jogging listlessly in a dogeared loop as the coherent years of our lives are spent in the salami opera of a garbage man's smoke-break. the purple beetle shouts at the top of his lungs. there is no retort. he shrugs his shoulders crawls back up my arm and disappears into a slot behind my ear. |