Franklin Road

It’s not my place to stay
when night wrenches
all conversations shut,
then it’s me alone again
on Franklin Road, riding past
a row of teeth or sliding
over taste buds on a tongue,
whatever waits to swallow me
whole like a goldfish in a dare,
or a dragon rising from its lair,
or the one volunteer miner
dropping down an elevator
shaft to seek survivors.
Trees offer no light at all,
huddled over the road,
defeated angels in prayer,
“God, leave us hope…
we’ve seen too much, we
sentinels of Franklin Road.”
Best country bar in the county—
too far from town, way out
by the trailer parks, fishing holes
and illegal hunting grounds—
tied like a metallic balloon
to a city so small cats cross
it all nightly collecting the news.
30 dark miles of inbetween.
Much my home as anywhere.