SIDE TRICKED AT A TRUCK STOP

Lame after many days driving. Arizona

not even a word in my vocabulary,

not even a name. Carburetor equally 

cryptic, mixing air and fuel. Alternator

at least familiar, a verb for taking turns.

Smell of diesel and vinegar. I didn’t see

you there at a table pasting petals

on a shiny moon. Blindness

has many faces, gaps like sour oranges

molding on the counter. When

the handle to the kitchen broke

in the palm of my hand, I buried it

under your car. Deafness a bird

swooping in after sudden rain. Streets

sweeping light into corners. African

gourd, patient helpful vessel, broken.

Pieces hiding behind the door. My

guitar a stowaway in the trunk.

PUBLISHED IN THE SAN PEDRO RIVER REVIEW (POETRY OF PLACE) Vol. 14 No. 1 Spring 2022