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Interstate
[Wolverine, Aug. 21, 2013]

Northbound, ninety degrees, hurtling seventy five
Heat haze pressing down on the Pigeon River Country,
Virulent purple heat waves undulate on the hills
Then flashing lights, blue-white, blue-white, blue-white
A threat to epileptics all those gumballs lit so harsh
Firemen struggle along one lane, traffic creeping
Gawkers hanging out windows of the vacation-bound,
No traffic directors here, this is a free form chaos zone,
Emergency trucks, Troop squads, even two CO trucks
(Who just passed us) we all potter-dawdle along
See a truck in a dry field, its nose mashed in, no meat wagons,
Later a fifth-wheeler keeled on heel, its ass end looking
Like petulant gods took a can opener to it
Opened it like a Spam can, moved on,
To make mischief elsewhere, leaving rain clouds ahead.
We keep north, understand savage surprise may await
In that cardinal direction for all travelers,
The dog yawns, Jambe Longue gets out Brenda’s carmel corn
You can’t always depend on strangers for succor,
Entertainment, or even the cheapest magic.


 
 
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