A poem from Brooke Herter James. I am fan of Brooke’s, her husband Dave, their two sons Sam and Pete, their daughter Francis and her husband Ben. They all fish well and some exceptionally well. They are New England Patriot fans. No one is perfect.
Route 90 Westbound
Route 90 westbound,
rolling up miles of blacktop river
through the chickpea farms, feed lots,
slaughterhouses, the Mississippi behind,
the Yellowstone ahead. In between,
the promise of Wall Drug, cheap gas,
U-pick strawberries, tattoo removals, corn
dogs, porn shops and life without crystal meth.
Jesus everywhere, crackling
on the AM/FM/XM dials, peeling off billboards,
smiling up from truck stop placemats,
coffee stain halos and all.
Checking out of the Comfort Inn
to the pink of early sky,
I smell rain somewhere to the west.
