break me out, she said. I will love you, she
swore. her letters always brief and to the point.
halfway to indy from here, barreling
down i-74 east, my first tire
blew out, shreds of tire across the highway
like feathers from a murdered crow. changing
the flat took an hour because my car trunk
is full of books and . . . distracted . . . later,
south-turning onto sixty-five, tank full
and a good station tuned on the radio,
miles melting behind me to distant gone
memory, rain to clear blue sky turning
to optimism when the second tire blew
and when I got to her house—already gone . . .
David M Pitchford
6 Nov 2011