Some days are nighthighways left to usto steer the starebetween reflective lines,coffee in one hand, a radioin one ear calling Willie“classic rock.” Say what!?Some days are just like thatand then the light shiftsand it’s not a semi-truckbarreling down.Some nights end withconveniencestore clerks ignoringan inventory of cigarettesand saccharine.They’ve all clocked outand you tune in to wave,to a radio wave.Some days we suspenddisbelief to know the sumof the distance from point Ato B without an app.And so, you praise small thingsto stay awake, the wayso long and relentless in itsloneliness.Praise the half and halfin the Styrofoam cup, thoughthere’s so much wrong with that.Praise for that roadside bottle tree,a trellis for your thoughts caughtin the headlights.Praise for that brown rabbitin the selvedge grass that wasn’tsprayed with poison; praisefor the median of ragwortand oxeyethat wasn’t mowed.Praise for that rare textfrom your sonthat spelled out “safe travels”—a prayer.Praise for the morning lightthat held off long enoughto allow lament to hitch,to buckle up in the passengerseat, adjusting and needingmore leg room.
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About the writer
Laurie Vaughen. Laurie Vaughen is a native of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and currently lives in Boston. She recently completed her MFA in poetry at the Sewanee School of Letters summer residency program. Her work appears in Chattanooga Review, BPR, Crab Orchard Review, Greensboro Review and Laurel Review. In 1994 James Dickey selected her poem "Morning Walk" for the award that bears his name, which was published in the Lullwater Review at Emory. She was the recipient of the Amon Liner Award from Greensboro Review in 1988 for her poem "American Wife Opens a Package from Iran" which was selected as the best poem to appear in the journal that year.
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