From the Side of the Road 746
Miles from Home
You are sore from a week’s worth of learning
where you came from. From the bottles full of water. That you would not drink
In fear of a longer life and more miles
than either of us would care to walk.
That last one took something out of you. Something
I held just days before. Before we saw that deer, headless,
but not bleeding. Not bad. On the side of the road next to
soft drink cups and whatever the hell else
couldn’t have waited. You were there with it.
Curled up next to an empty Skoal can.
That smell of where you came from.
You wanted him. The bottles
full of spit. And you drank. You took him in.
Your youth not eternal. Your stomach
in knots. You let him go
in a rest stop trash can two miles away
from the house you did not grow up in. The house
your father built.
