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a poem by Lena Judith Drake
The Bus to New Orleans
I smell diesel,
not the good smell of gasoline
you're not supposed to sniff
when you're a seven year old girl
and your mom tells you it's bad for you;
diesel, and chemicals that clean vomit.
In the bathroom, dried-out alcohol wipes
in a plastic bag in the broken metal sink, sewage
deep in the toilet bowl, swishing
with the bumps on the road. I wince,
picturing potholes in the pavement
and splashes on the backs of my thighs.
The sulfur through Gary,
the rain through Chicago,
a porn star neon cross lighting the night,
Jesus the beacon flashing hot pink truth.
Rest stop after gas station after humid buffet,
toasting the driver with a dry rib.
Neck cramps and sleep spindles,
fast food bus exchange,
until we smell the sea
and bathroom cleaner and they tell us we're near.
We stretch by slumbering semi-trucks,
grinding wheat between back molars,
girls spread with blankets in the aisles,
blocking passage in the dark.
Angie and I talk about blowjobs,
craning our necks to the tiny TV,
picture yellow and static
and everyone else is sleeping;
I blur in bored pictures,
ghost-like, with the overhead reading light.
not the good smell of gasoline
you're not supposed to sniff
when you're a seven year old girl
and your mom tells you it's bad for you;
diesel, and chemicals that clean vomit.
in a plastic bag in the broken metal sink, sewage
deep in the toilet bowl, swishing
with the bumps on the road. I wince,
picturing potholes in the pavement
and splashes on the backs of my thighs.
the rain through Chicago,
a porn star neon cross lighting the night,
Jesus the beacon flashing hot pink truth.
Rest stop after gas station after humid buffet,
toasting the driver with a dry rib.
Neck cramps and sleep spindles,
fast food bus exchange,
until we smell the sea
We stretch by slumbering semi-trucks,
grinding wheat between back molars,
girls spread with blankets in the aisles,
blocking passage in the dark.
craning our necks to the tiny TV,
picture yellow and static
and everyone else is sleeping;
I blur in bored pictures,
ghost-like, with the overhead reading light.
© by Lena Judith Drake
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010