The white pickup goes by at 7:10
each weekday morning.
There’s nothing up the road
but where the blacktop turns to dirt,
scattered houses on the mountain,
deer and chained dogs and feral cats
and posted and no trespassing signs.
I like to imagine a lover’s tryst,
the road going no-where leading
to a waiting heart, eyes looking
out a window, hoping who has left
will not return having forgotten
something – discarded love
a long time ago. . . no memory to draw
him back. The woman hums Love Lifted Me
as the white pickup pulls around back.
-Byron Hoot
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