Blues
       

A train fills our horizon, boxcars fan out
into embrace, a wide order. A moving west.
To make no attempt at an index:
wrong girl, wrong summer, wrong car.
We chased us from this coast and the radio
mildewed, tin songs palpable as maps.
How do you like that! To search the interstate
and find everything fugitive. Touch
the radio dial light like a Ouija board
and we give it our wishes. Is it normal
in these mountains to see a wild turkey?
Is it normal to wear a dress
that describes your skin? Meanwhile
we spend daylight avoiding neighbors,
making simple escapes, and we love
what doesn't make us feel stupid.
Don't worry dear, a ballad is just
a slo-o-ow song. We wait hours humming
at a railroad crossing—good thing a summer
swells then shortens. Continents,
drugstore breakfasts, our names
and nightly bodies. In my mind it's already over.

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Copyright © 2013 Alice Bolin All rights reserved
from Hayden's Ferry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission