He was making good time on the margin
of night. He was traveling fast on trips
down the road. The road was straight.
No voices came across the wire. The radio
was dead. He chose this moment of non-
being to save himself. He got off
at rest stop eight, west of nothing.
He borrowed the waitress’s pen and
a yellow pad full of doodles. He started
a list. Road signs came first, colored
blue against yellow. Random names
swung into a map. Memory grafted
itself onto the table and would not
let go. Hours passed and they kept
filling his cup with forgiveness.
People floated past him in echo.
Someone saw him weep. Finally
the kitchen shut down and he
was left with his own words.
A bloody trail worked its way
down the page. This is how it happens.
One minute you’re asleep and safe.
Next door, the moon pulls
you out of your life.