Asphalt crosses gravel
where the honeysuckle's sweetest
and she traces the pasture,
barefoot at the fencerow.
Here is where dirty rugs aren't,
drunk bottles don't break,
and liquor forgets to come back
in pinto bean sludge on a battered T.
This where the bus stops,
even when the storm won't -
one-eighteen every Wednesday.
She aches to press her back
against the knees of another
and watch animals and barbed wire
be washed away.