My brother wasn’t built to last. Not everyone is.
August Kleinzahler/Cutty, One Rock
What is left on the trees is brown or yellow. The vast interstate is clogged with commuters. The sun now up, our shadows are leading us to Scranton.
Scranton! My mythical America! Well, we make what we can of the stories childhood left us.
So the road, the bus, the woods, lawns, shingle New Jersey houses and cemeteries. While through my inbox flicker emails guessing next of kin and wondering how to bury you.
In God’s own country, republic of the king-sized, it’s hard to grasp that nothing we do will ever again make any difference to you.
A huge lake hemmed by woods, a faded resort hotel. The water lies unmoved.
White churches peep among the winter hills. It’s all a joke, a postcard, a movie of the road rolling away beneath us.
Hackettstown. You thought you would meet God here, or on another road.
The driver stamps his feet in the cold like a horse, puts out his cigarette and rolls his bulk back on the bus.
Truck tires are ten percent off. Look – another auto repair shop.