Where the Asphalt Turns to Clay

We were chasing a Norfolk Southern,

shining under a blue sky of wonder,

my military jacket covered in patches

from somebody else’s war…

you laying in the backseat of a ride 

that was someone else’s 

before it was mine.

I took a few corners too fast,

tea came spilling out of your glass

onto olive green boots clay 

stained from a half dry rain

that filled the marshes giving

the manatees a summer home. 

That tall green grass 

floats on top of a windy creek

finding its way back

to where my father

got his first gray streak

in a blue house with a small 

front porch 

and tin 

green roof. 

Maybe we won’t get a flat,

running down a dirt road 

on old tires and new bearings,

ignoring painted road signs 

knocked on the ground,

filled with misspellings.

Everywhere is the 

middle of nowhere.

You only know you

have crossed the county line

when you’ve seen

an ice cold alcohol sign

shining bright under

the shade of a tall

Eastern white pine. 

The loggers stack up

the lumber and bosses 

stack up their checks,

cause old folks

love the smell of

fat lighter breezing in

on a short southern breath. 

There’s sand in the grass

and the sandals I’m still

breaking in, while you’re 

fighting to keep the sun and

mosquitoes off of your skin— 

I’m starting to think

this Golden Isle oven

is wearing us thin. 

The red paint is chipping, 

my Levi’s are ripping, 

and one day you’ll 

stop picking to be 

here with me so

I stand 

in disbelief.  

I didn’t think the 

Georgia coast

would bring you down

like it did today—

the road ended

ended a mile up

where the asphalt 

turns to clay.