Poetrizin' in Georgia

Rest Area No. 34

Gray fog slumbers,

the folds of her sagging

skin heavy with

sweat settling
over Rest Area No. 34,

etched into Georgia's

lanky frame.

Puddles reflect cool stone

although this winter gloom

of day is warm

and my heart holds

its breath still as

the fog, will

let out a sigh when its

done missing you.

Sifting the Air

Highways and

afternoons that

leave you

sifting the air for

even one streak of sunlight

but the green-gray of forests

and the clear gray of scattered

rain reflect only fog and clouds

and you struggle to

ignore numbed body

parts, the ache of

your hunched-over back,

sore from snaking

northward, bound for

the rural midwest.