The Writer's Cramp entry 21-5-20 Poem 17 Lines
|She picked at her wound,
scattering chunks of honey-colored scabs
along the Mississippi Delta
as they zoomed up Interstate 55
with the windows down.
They hoped the highway breeze could keep
their sore eyes from closing.
"It's like you're allergic to sitting still,"
her mother had said.
Her mother was dead now,
and she had been dead to her mother
long before that;
just a name scratched off a family bible.
This new start would be different from the others,
she told the puff-of-cotton clouds
as he pulled into the shoulder.
"Your turn to drive."