CALL IT
- after No Country for Old Men
Chance put you
in front of this poem.
Minted 20 years ago.
It took that many years
for it to get here. Shuffled
purposely towards you
in stocking feet. hijacked
rides from corpse driver
to corpse driver. Traversed
bloody motels,
bloody highways, greed.
A transponder ached
like a vulture's
hunger eyeing
fresh carrion. Found
you like
a lucky quarter or its
bullet-ridden
underbelly viewed
from hell below.
