A Mile Off The Highway

We know which country stores sell us booze and leave

illuminated under the cracked, neon crown of RC Cola.

We drink the collective whiskey like communion wine

and smoke the last of our parents’ cigarettes.

We share our stash and plan midnight rendezvous

to all-night diners. With folded menus, we sit lost

in spirals of coffee cream hallucinations

while flamingo pink waitresses and born again truckers,

both with amphetamine eyes, speak in non-stop whispers.

We tell girlfriend fantasies of those we never talk with

and what their lip gloss tastes like—a mix of peppermint,

coconut, and cherry all blend together to tease.

We talk shit of our town and conjure imaginary escapes

in borrowed cars while we search for borrowed ideas

we read in borrowed books. But still, our lips tremble

at Big City names like New York, New York.

And although we never admit, we gather together

for protection, all of us clad in converse and flannel—

a One Star army of dyed hair and chain wallets—

because sometimes all we have are each other.

Originally Published as a Limited Edition Broadside, Yellow Flag Press