Paul could assemble anything that stayed in place.
He lost his job at General Motors.

His car got seventy-two miles from Detroit
when it burst into flame. His thumb got him home to Denver.

Riding shotgun through Iowa he developed a toothache.
It went away when they crossed the wide Missouri into Nebraska.

His thumb malfunctioned outside of Lincoln.
He blamed it on McClellan’s Slows though it made no sense.

Outside Fort Morgan he saw himself driving to Detroit
three months earlier to start a new job.

Paul was not sure his new place in Denver was a slum.
Plum paint on old overcrowded buildings left him in doubt.

He exhausted his savings bringing his building up to code.
GoFundMe paid for green apple paint.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


The asphalt dries under the rising sun.
A crow steps over the broken glass,
tossed pebbles and fast food litter
of the road’s tattered shoulder.

Where they flock they block the view
of a midnight miscalculation carcass.
Hunks of flesh are ripped
and throats tip back to take it in.

A tumbleweed rolls into the sage
and parks against a wire fence
with a third rail electrified
to zap the grazing cow come too close.

A fence post flycatcher
zips up into the air,
performs winged acrobatics
and returns.

The cloudless sky promises
a deluge of heat,
the rising ripples
fool the watering eye.

A roadrunner dashes crazy loops.
A dance. Lunacy. A religious
practice summoning more rain
to bring the burrowing munchies to the surface.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney