On all sides, dark as a dead man’s vision. Car’s on lower than low and the gas station’s shuttered. In the passenger seat, you wrap your jacket tighter around you. I contemplate the road ahead, wonder how many more miles of Texas this clunker will cover tonight.
At least, I’m not being bugged by that May beetle of a retort, “I told you so.” You’re the kind who deals with whatever life gives you. If that means sleeping in the car overnight, you’ll curl up in the back seat and snore your way through to the coming of rescue.
But I’m angry with myself, so it’s not as if I’m free of rancor. And I’m not even sure what highway we’re on or if we’re headed in the right direction. I turn off the engine and settle down too. If I’m to be lost, here is as good a place as any. Did I tell you that, on all sides, it’s as dark as a dead man’s vision. It’s also as dark as a live man’s miscalculation. It’s almost midnight in the middle of nowhere. Light doesn’t stand a chance.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.