By Michael Easton

The road is like a stream: a Hog
flowing like a lost oar in the asphalt current.

Long, tan fingers, used to picking at Cobb Salads
at the country club, playing with the Marlboros
in my pocket.
Clinging to the leather about my waist as might
a spoiled child.

The noontide light passing through the rib cage
of Joshua trees, like morning for Matisse.

Laughing off fear at the back of my neck,
whispering things that are lost in the dry wind.

Convenience stores staining the desert landscape,
tombstones along some scenic forest lawn.

And for a single moment, while the sound is down low,
I think you know why I do the things I do.
Why there is no job to hold down, a car payment
to make, even why your father hates me,
and you're with me.

Scenes of strawberries, across crisp farmland.

Leaving the road at some exit that doesn't
even have a sign announcing it. A still night.
Making love on a blanket by a well.
Afterwards, talking about cats and an old movie
you saw last night, shooting stars and your brother
in Canada. Drinking wine and just being
there under the blankets, never making it to the place.
And somewhere in Elysium I think,
this must be almost like love.

Icarus passes by in the moonlight.