The Screaming Sheep

Hell Guitar

Someone behind me is whining into his phone: you fucked it all up so bad and now look now I’m in hell. On and on. Night pursues and catches us. The driver scans the rear-view mirrors, hoping for a little trouble. Shotgun beats on his no-string guitar with thick ivory nails, mutters incomprehensible hell dialect. Down the aisle each little light’s a story with a bad ending. Pretend you don’t notice. The passengers also pretend. A game: What is your favorite word? Mine is bludgeon wait no I mean mignonette. All this time the road unwinds unlit through blind hills, endless, cutting past broken parking lots and dead motels. But yes, I think it’s safe to close your eyes; no, the world can’t end in every single poem. If we make it to the next Roy Rogers we’ll hide in the back, crouch and hold our breath till this bus rolls away, silent as a hearse full of glass flowers. Morning will freeze us awake. We’ll drink thin bitter coffee and like it.