hit the road, jack...

highway,
spine without curve,
salted dust.
things to count on,
to expect,
ticked one by one
on fingers.

say one and two.
say singsong.

potholes, roadblocks,
detours. so predictable.
reeking of dilapidated
fruitstands,
dirty vendors.

teeth into the peach or
plum, fist against
the cherries.
fruit:
never free.

"oh, the things we're forced
to pay for!"

spit, from lips.
watching,
as the
road tounged by:

narrow lines,
cracked in half by
eyelids.

the nautical world

was no doubt forboding, and,

though they feared

that the open water

might somehow

swallow them up,

there was simply nothing

real

to be sorry for:

the rowboat was

sturdy in construct and

all passengers wore

sensible hats

and full

sleeves, ever conscious

of their delicate

skin.