The Offline Mind

Roads
born of dynamite
cut deep through the heart of a dark green wood,
humongous to the soul and

peppered now with blown tires,
sitting duck cops.

The coffee here is too sweet,
everything here is too
sweet. Like the ham.

With socked feet on the dash
I doze off and picture a life
where I too can make pies
and praise God.
From inside a dream I hear my son say
“Cows!”
A billboard insists: Jesus Saves!

We stop.
All night the old girls keep
opening and shutting
the motel doors all night. I don’t sleep.

Back on the road
I try to choose the right songs:
Sweet Virginia,
Oh Carolina,
Georgia On My Mind.
Down, further, farther we go…

to Florida where my dying mother
is melted stuck into a brown La-Z-Boy
and will watch us for one week,

my kids, cannonballing
into the pool she built
for just this

with the childish sun hissing
at the sliding glass door,
and with all of space widening behind her eyes.