Twitchy two-lane: motel-blue lingerie sky
& nine miles to Wagontire, Oregon.
You shave off fatigue, bourbon over Coke...
fatalistic roar toward an ungrown town.
No guitars or violins at play.
Narrow spots to hang a Stetson.
Pensioned-off is a cafe wall
with sixties pin-ups as cowgirls:
beseeching eyes, wagging tails...
crumbling break-loose papery dreams.