Dirty Back Road

by David Estringel

Moonlight

fingers

cutgrass, tying

rice seed into

silver braid

as Night

gobbles miles

from dirt road’s

muddy hand.

Waves of pale blue

kiss the doors of

an ol’ 55

with a swish

and a sway

to the rhythm of

crickets’ electric song and

a synchrony of bullfrogs

having a midnight

splash. Clouds

pass overhead

and fireflies—

like headlights—set

the stage for

a long

Naugahyde slide

as Night’s eye

sleeps.

It’s just us

here

now

behind cover

stories

and sweating glass—the

King and Queen of the Heap

     discarded beer bottles

     and well-worn

     prophylactics

     at our beck and call.

But

you’ll go your way

I’ll go mine

and no one

will ever know…

                 …except the moon

and those fireflies.

They know where all the bodies are buried.

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