Awake: the white hand of my benefactor drums on the seat between us. The world had become orange in the rearview mirror of a '55 Pontiac. The road was covered with bugs and mist coiled around great house-sized rocks and in the distance buried them. Village. Passed three limp gas stations then one whose windows exploded with fire. My mouth was filled with plastic cups. Final item: breakfast, nurtured by a miraculous hatred. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BOYHOOD FRIENDS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS COLLEGE DRINKING SONG by GEORGE SANTAYANA JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID by MATTHEW PRIOR THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 86. LOST DAYS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI LOUIS XV by JOHN STERLING (1806-1844) |