steel wool and fireants

when i moved to texas
it was in the middle
of thirty straight over
one hundred degree days
i was pulling a u-haul
sixteen hours across country
with the devil’s breath
blowing constantly
across the featureless land
road hypnosis and salt flecked
lips feverish in thirst
watching the miles tick
as i looked for the next
over sized truck stop
to refill on caffeine
and gratefully piss dust

i did not have any idea
what i would do
once the destination
was reached
just that it was a different
horizon one thousand miles
from everything i had known

but now as i drive down
the highways more familiar
than the forgotten streets
of a home long turned to mist
the bluebonnets(purple flowers
that infuriate me with the
misnomer)swaying in the diesel
fumes of dust covered trucks
i cannot recall more than
the corn fields dancing silks
drifting in the cool breeze
snapshots of small town illinois
replaced by small town texas
unable to tell the two apart
i wonder if i had been
writing shitty poetry then
if the memories would be any
more vibrant or if the sepia
tones of the past would blur
the still life images of my
life as a different type of fool

home is where you lay your
head filled with steel wool
and fireants incapable of sleep
fretting over things out of
your control as anxiety pulls
you downdowndown into a pit
of vipers of self doubt
it doesnt matter if it is
where you were born
or where you have gone to die
in the end it doesnt matter
if the dust is red or brown
in the end the void vacillates
for every last one of us

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