August 4, 2006


Eating a frozen hamburger with tasteless
neon cheese, I wait
in line for the bathroom at a
dirty gas station somewhere between
Texas and dawn.
The lot is full of semis. Nothing is
open for miles around, except for land.
I step outside, but it's hard to
hear above the wind
sweeping over the plain. But I
make a quick call
before packing back into a Ford
Explorer with six other people,
our bags strapped to the top
under a silver tarp, like a giant
baked potato. It's 2 a.m.
and she is asleep, at home in Urbana.
I leave a message,
glad to hear her voice,
if only for five seconds.

Posted by dpetrella at August 4, 2006 9:46 AM | TrackBack
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