Rolled-down windows cut dirt trail storms in two
by fours that keep little girls from leaving Daddy's side too soon. Locals don't give
directions to strangers
& when signs lead nowhere and you stop to ask your way around, even the town
atheist will tell you this is God's country. "But we were hoping to go next door to wait
for the next opportunity to buy our vaginas a contract," it's already been
seven years, give or take a few. Nowhere left to go because our uncivilÂ
union, with plans lost between maps and that atlas from 1989, is reaching the end of the globe. Our third fingers were discovered flat, and we need those Santa Ana winds
to re-inflate them so we can scream like every XX and XY couple in this village
of high school sweethearts producing two-point-five clones per household.