Somehow I'm running
on three hours sleep
my foot hard against
the gas pedal's spring.
The truck up ahead
has out of state plates--
we're both hired guns
here for the quick cash.
We storm over
rolling, back-country hills
at warp speed
whizzing by off-season corn
and a river that's lazy and laden with trout
en route to our cherished
but lonely hotels.
Seventy-two in a fifty-five zone
without a care until we come up
on a tired old truck
that's spotted with rust.
It clearly belongs to a native
of here, a farmer or fisherman
or Jack-of-all-trades.
Its cargo of scrap rattles in bed
as the truck putts along
at a turtle's top speed.
My cohort and I take
the first chance we get
to zip around Cletus
and make up lost time.
No finger, no horn
no lights flash at us
as we disregard local
respect for the norm.
It's not until miles
of pavement ahead
that a scene slows me down
to the specified speed.
A house that I've passed
at least thirty times
was gutted by flame
since I've last seen the place.
The firetrucks must come
from townships away
and can't save the timber
in time like back home.
Caution tape lines the yard like a threat.
No Trespassing signs
dot the doors on the porch.
My neck cranes while soaking
the tragedy in and I let my conspirator
race off alone. We're guests in
this town, ours smells just the same
their lives will drag on
long after we're gone.
It takes something more
than a heavy right foot
to make it in such a desolate place.
True grit, some call it, but that's
nothing more than saying
that some folks don't hurry
to death.
All of this is challenged
two days later
when I ask about
the fire
while paying for my gas.
"No one died," she tells me
while reaching for my pack.
"Arson or a meth lab
according to police."
I smirk on my way out
strangely feeling better
since no matter how you spin it
we're all in the same shipwreck.
Currently reading:
"Lone Survivor" by Marcus Luttrell.
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