How much time? The old guys playing cribbage
on the slat porch of the parched hotel don’t have a clue.
Each truck passing on the state highway blows
Paul Harvey’s voice to a murmur and a fuzz.
It’s hot, it’s dry, and the only growing things are
leggy goldenrods sprouting through the ribs
of one Ford chassis beside the belly-up garage.
How much time before their game is defunct, too?
One of them makes a move. Another snuffs a butt,
flicks it to the ground to circle with the rest
around a pot of dried-out glads. It’s like that.
Nobody’s going anywhere. Nothing’s coming back.
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