Past a taco truck in the middle of
nowhere, I pull over – far enough
away not to ascertain if anyone’s
cooking. Gadgets are everywhere
and a meaningless cup of coffee
sits cold in the spot for such things,
next to where I’ve built a make-
shift ice box to house Joey’s Pink-
berry. Now I don’t think I feel.
Most of my mind’s been officially
made up or otherwise established
but who’s ever up front? What’s
not to be delusional about (the
short ghost in the backseat)?
It’s about sun on a bench or
sleep with birdsong at the trim
of your dream. Wasted and
wooden, a thousand pounds
of trivia in one slant cornhusk.
