midwest dandelions among gold

An empty mop bucket,

tucked in the corner 


The scent of

Bleach cut with water. 

The concoction left a sticky residue 

Over the surfaces it was cleaned with. 


My shoes suctioned to the adhesive,


in chorus 

With other travelers,

Inside the truck-stop. 


I surveyed the pipes

Stationed above the urinal. 

Green slime was caked 

Underneath a lug nut 

Holding the plumbing in place. 

The pipes shook

And the green slime 

Flaked off like confetti,

Sprinkled itself inside 

The toilet’s basin. 


I stepped away,

It washed away.


Automatic water streams

Flushed out from the faucet

And saturated my fingers.

In my head

I sang row, row, row your boat

In tandem  

With the deluge,

pulling my fingers away

after imagining the last note.

A technique 

I’d learned 


How long a person’s hands

Should remain inside the stream

For them to be clean.

I read it off a 

Step by step guide

About proper handwashing, 

Posted in a hospital’s bathroom.


I pivoted my eyeline,

Nestled beside a neighboring faucet

Was a stack of cards. I grabbed one.

White letters were back-dropped 

Against solid purple. 

It read:

I know the plans I have for you.

On the otherside was a website. 


Outside a pickup approached 

The entrance to the truckstop. Its headlights 

Blinded me. From their direction 

A voice shouted something 

Incomprehensible. I squinted through 

The gleaming and asked for clarification.

An engine roared and I blinked. 


Artist is present. 

Illusion conjecture, typified performance 

(here we go)


A fly infiltrated our car.

Its flight pattern was built like conversation. 

A circuitous direction, mimed in the Here and Now.

We ignored the fly and decided on a destination. 


Trees sashayed with the window glass.

The fly became jealous of their intimacy, 

Staking qualm in being unable 

To break out and greet the window’s

Dance partner. 


The insect landed on her cheek

She swiped at it with her fingers.


A fly observes human movement 

As if it were melting wax.

Before I finished blinking the insect

left her skin and hovered before the dashboard. 


“That’s interesting.” I said. 

“What?” She asked. 

“Touch…well….the sensation of it. As we experience it, it’s in the past.”

“What do you mean?” She asked. 


We stopped at a red light. 

I leaned over the center console, kissed her cheek. 

The light turned green and I advanced our car. 


“As much as that kiss felt in the moment and it was…how you experienced it

Was delayed by hairs of a second. Your brain takes a moment to decipher reality,

What you’re experiencing.”

“You mean time is an illusion?”

“No. We’re still living within the arrow of time…our sensations are confined by its boundaries. 

Really, though, if it were to be measured, I guess it’s your brain’s interpretation of time, like rewinding a movie at split seconds intervals and making sense of it by…like…”

 She said nothing but reached out her hand, stayed it along my knuckles. Her grip was warm, soft and gentle.


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