Landscape with Greyhound and Greasewood
Mostly men keep singing
while dark blood collects where I open
and I line my polka dot panties with rest stop receipts.
I think probably we’ll pause in Barstow to continue
but I’m no standard:
I fold over to smell myself.
Route 66 to Las Vegas.
Perfect for a child and also America
loves the promise of a long haul.
I pull the tab from a small can of apple juice:
I’m cared for.
The man next to me puts his hand on my thigh.
He gets the kind of girl I am,
new leaves shiny with oil, flammable.
Know better. Somebody,