by Grant Belote
They suggest putting it all behind…
You’re back. The silvery tint in your eyes
pleads hypocrisy, but it’s late and
I serve a platter of smiles to spice conversations,
to weaken the divide that wedged between us
when you told me you admire the
separation of concrete freeway dividers.
You’ve abused the interstate system nine times,
fleeing bustling towns as if they were temporary blemishes
sprouting patches in the folds of your skin.
You ditched wrinkled forehead valleys, jagged
nostril peaks, jutting from the side of your flawed rationale.
You left behind a chorus of old friends trying to dissuade
your decisions, only to see their reflection in a car window,
not too far from the border to your delusional refuge.
