Following the moonscape drive
across the blue zombie
of southern Wyoming, bleary
bead on the Beyond-
from Truckstop coffee
to Little America,
past Gone Too Far,
to One More Exit,
I close my eyes in this sad motel,
try to remember her, how we last
made love in the TV’s digital glow.
But the interstate ghost supersedes, a residual
drone through sense and marrow,
lingers
like a radio song’s cloying hook
lingers
like the sense of something important forgotten.
I snap off the power, the Twilight
Zone shrinks to a distant star,
screen glowing at the foot of the bed
like the aura of a miniature Hiroshima
half life of 5,000 generations.
Phillip Michael Sawatzky
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/3-am-cheyenne/
