Following the moonscape drive <br /> across the blue zombie <br /> of southern Wyoming, bleary <br /> bead on the Beyond- <br />from Truckstop coffee <br /> to Little America, <br /> past Gone Too Far, <br /> to One More Exit, <br /> <br />I close my eyes in this sad motel, <br />try to remember her, how we last <br />made love in the TV’s digital glow. <br />But the interstate ghost supersedes, a residual <br />drone through sense and marrow, <br />lingers <br /> like a radio song’s cloying hook <br />lingers <br /> like the sense of something important forgotten. <br /> <br />I snap off the power, the Twilight <br />Zone shrinks to a distant star, <br />screen glowing at the foot of the bed <br /> like the aura of a miniature Hiroshima <br /> half life of 5,000 generations.<br /><br />Phillip Michael Sawatzky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/3-am-cheyenne/
