Memory Is the Rig
       

I can't erase Interstate So from memory. Or truckers. Truckers occupy
my thoughts the way flowers and fresh air once did. Women. Women
used to wake me in the morning, or the thought of women. The
sweet curve of a woman's hips, surfaces of good use abundant on her
back. In her eyes. The way to a woman's heart is on the back roads
of her thighs; not the thighs really, but thsough the heart's ache to
be thought of as more than just a road to pleasure. A man drives a
rig across the body of the country and stil he can't see his own nose.
The soul's as wrinkled as my shirt and I've slept in what by all rights
should be the last motel bed. And yet last night the light at dusk:
unspeakable. it won't ever be like that again. If desire is asphalt then
memory is the rig that carries me to my destination.

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Copyright © 2015 Rodger Moody All rights reserved
from History
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