A blinding locust storm in southern Illinois.
the kids who pick me up stole this Ford,
drinking and joyriding, reveling toward
the coast. And when they stop to let me pry
the black gook off the wipers, they screech away,
hysterical, my rucksack in their trunk.
I have surrendered to the road and pray
as I hitch, buffeted by each passing truck,
it will provide. And so it does. Two more rides,
Iowa cornfield to sleep, dancing stalks
and whispers- to be found you must be lost.
Falling stars throughout the night, roads
almost abandoned- a Mustang of six-packs
and four small-town girls, heading nowhere fast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem