I have a legend with the road.
A connection with dust from
parking lots and narrow alleys. I know
something about flat tires and vacant
store fronts where change and loss hold
onto empty. Faraway places never
consider these places. A suffering evening
sky labors at placing stars into night.
Mountain shadows, appearing like
sleeping giants, guard the passage to
the north. Warm random breezes brush
over vacant gas pumps and roadside
tables. Darkness has no fear of evil as
night nurses the anger out of day.