Contributor: Brian Rihlmann

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She hears the same old questions
my brain whispers in deep folds
as I drive her grey highways,
and gives me the silent treatment
like she always has,
like any honest therapist.

My tires grumble in protest,
and sometimes whine,
yet she keeps her vow.

Her only answers
are dust devils blowing
across an ancient seabed,
a mirage shimmering
like puddles on the road ahead,
vanishing at my approach,

and the curve of the horizon
beckoning like a wry smile
across her pale sunburned lips
I will never kiss.


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