untitled
Stephen Lindow
By the time this reaches you my voice will be a different address
Between Joshua Tree and Hoover Dam,
some unnamed wash and the state line,
our sedan veers off the pike
into a one blink town.
I scan for a stop where I can petrolize,
and she can womanize
at these wee small hours,
Then, just off the map,
the blue quasar of a gas station
catches my eye.
She clomps out and over
to the attendant for the powder room.
He hands her a key dangling dirty green tupperware.
I arrest him with my coffee-stained texaco map, and a granite stare.
He offers me his name and vague mistakes.
The office radio spits interference,
and he says his name is Jeb, as if on cue
and signals around the garage.
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