lost somewhere on the desert straightawaysof New Mexico. Scatteredacross shit-stained rest stop bathrooms and a backseatpacked fullwith trash bags of second hand clothes. You callthis redemption. You callthis taking the wheel back from Jesus. But,tonight, you do not call. Instead, you parkoff a California interstate, halfwayto an old lifeand tie back seat belts before fadinginto yourself like wet tissue. I think longabout the days we’d steallifts from strangers or playthe I’m waiting for my stamps gameat Mo’s for milk. Solemnly swearthat God had a plan for us. Me and you, Sweetpeawith a kiss to my temple before buckling meinto the passenger seatI’d yet to grow into. All night drivethrough our dying town till the Denny’s sign hotand bright on the hood of the car. Our engine idle.Faint glow of a joint in the cornerof your peeling lips. A homeless mancombing through a dumpster, street-lit and desperatefor a miracle.