We’re
all standing against a fence
waiting
for the bus to Olympia.
Between
the black bars, spider webs gleam
in
the morning sun.
An
old man in an orange vest is plucking cigarette butts
from
beside the curb with a metal claw.
A
woman reaches into her Grocery Outlet bag
and
takes out a package of Pop Tarts
and
a juice box. She breaks the Pop Tart into pieces
and
feeds them to her son, who seems old enough
and
able to do so himself. She unwraps the plastic straw
from
the side of the juice box, pierces the foil,
and
holds it out to him so he can drink.
At
this point I realize that I’m in the wrong line
and
the bus is waiting at the end of the block.
I
make it just in time, the last to board.
*
Behind
the hotel
there
is a powder blue dumpster
surrounded
by a yellow brick wall.
At
the edge of the parking lot
beneath
the trees
is
a picnic table
where
the smokers can sit.
The
front desk clerk,
a
young Korean kid
face
ravaged with acne, says
the
cops come by sometimes
with
someone who’s just been
released
from prison,
get
them a room for the night.
At
dusk I see flashing lights in the carport,
a
couple standing by a car with the hood propped,
the
jagged pines dark against the sky.
*
The
sound of the highway traffic rushing
behind
the wall of evergreens.
A
Gulf Station, a 76 station
A
Quality inn, a Ramada Inn, a Super 8
A
Shari’s and a Burger King
and
a Denny’s, with a hostess named Chloe,
skinny
with raccoon eyes
and
a sad, sweet smile.
When
your shift is over,
I’ll
scooch over in my booth
and
you can pick at my soggy fries
and
lay your weary head
with
its dishwater blond locks
against
my shoulder
and
tell me
everything
*
A
man pushes his kid in a stroller
along
a busy street.
Closer
to town, there’s Aztek Bowling
and
Twister Donuts
and
haunted pawn shops
and
discount trophy stores
but
out here there are no buildings
There’s
nothing along this stretch of road
aside
from a motel half a mile ahead
and
a marijuana dispensary
half
a mile back
*
Mad
Max: Beyond Thunderdome
is
on TV. Our hearts
are
rust and leather, clanging cages,
chains
and rubber, steam and echoes.
The
desert is full of sinkholes
that
swallow first a horse
then
a young girl.
I
sit on the bed and nibble
my
leftover croque-monsieur,
sip
my gas station pinot grigio,
mute
the commercials entreating you to join
class
action lawsuits against the makers
of
hernia mesh implants, imploring you
to
seek compensation if you
or
someone you love
has
suffered injury or death
as
a result
of
a hernia mesh operation
*
On
the bus ride home, I leaf through
a
book of Indian tales. The light
of
the overhead bulb trickles down
onto
woodcuts of totem poles,
of
sea monsters and wild women of the woods
and
mountain goats with only one horn.
I
read about a young man named Ice Ribs
who
defeated a giant crab,
which
then turned into thousands of tiny crabs
for
the tribe to feast upon.
The
light is weak and my eyes are bad
and
I have to hold the book close to my face
to
make out the words
and
after a while I turn off the lamp
and
stare out the window,
watching
the distant lights zoom past
like
sparks flashing in the dark eye
of
a raven
