That Guy...


The truck holds onto the smell of hip waders like you wouldn’t believe. They are roasting in the back cabin. The push and pull of his foot on the brake, the stretched melodies on the warped cassettes and his stories spinning faster than the wheels, makes for a good ride.

He smells like everything I need.

List

Cherry chapped stick, the taste of grade three
Skin flaking as if gravity were missing
Hair reaching shoulders, damp still
the hamburger phone from the Dawson’s house, the scent of plastic and gossip
ten minutes till work

You hearts Me!

Tonight...

rain takes the shape
of frozen seeds 
that mimic the sound tiny feet
with tiny tap shoes
shuffling south

down the window pane
away from a misty shelter
of melting night.