down the street a perfect breakfast joint
to take a fuzzy hangover into black walls
and street noise and I’m picking up signals
movie time hobos and grey depression era coats
wanderers back to horse clop and Spanish cry
and the sand blasting wind fury of desert night
we migrate up coast across two borders in mist
on ocean road right down to water’s edge
and murky ghost crews clearing a mudslide
a motel in empty field behind quiet dust curtains
wood panel faces molten in the walls
and fire shadows rippling waves in the ceiling
open we go my companion with your feet in England
and your fists in the sun of a hitchhiker’s heaven
eyes come to press your intent into spongy-headed
passengers flipping through an arcana of lovers
for that one spark of compassion a muse to sing to
and a bloody way back into the new age
I mind the peak cabin with vistas in all directions
need fire humming here and nowhere in particular
while you dip a toe into icy time flow finicking a door
and another secret pocket in your glow vest
with return currency good ideas and heart of gold
and yet always looking for a peasant to give it to
Photo by Diego Jimenez on Unsplash
