reading

Eventually a road sign may tell you,
here is where it ends. You watch for it,
a reason for the spin to stop––driving
without destination just to get out
the freeze in the cooler packed before
dawn.

Bare back beneath shower spray,
tender beneath hands a bare hope
suffusing talk of what will
come when the numbers
hit, when one day

waiting––a future makes sense
like renovation blueprints
in home restoration shows
following mouse droppings
and mildew to magnificent views

––of the lake, the trampoline,
the long yard, the car, fire pit.
Circle us. No more staring
at the map

like it will explain how
to go from wet wood to flame
hot enough to roast wedding pig.
No more extra shots

of gas station caffeine, extra sweet
––first hit of a story where it all works
out in the end.

No more pretending interest
in craps table logic of six and eight;
fish and bait, how bass come

for worms if you grow them;
no more growing worms in yards
as food for fish approaching feasts

here where the next meal
is so much closer now
to the last.