by Mike Boyle

No new worlds left
The streetlights roar by and
the cars just stutter
while I try to remember
terminal velocity
120 feet per second?

I look at the postcards
my ex-wife sent me from
and Mexico
as the concierge nods

Someone is passing a pipe
around the backseat
I can smell it
The driver and I pass on it
200 miles to go
Driver’s knuckles are white
around the wheel
as he grinds his teeth

We’re not passing as many
body mounds today
as the past few days
and the gunfire has died down
200 miles to the ammo dump
and we’re
running short

There’s still
some hide-outs
in Mexico
she says
And I think
Maybe in the spring
If I make it

She still signs
her cards

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