passing Kimmswick Bone Bed
on my drive to St. Louis
(4:30AM on I-55)
traffic not yet bad—
where pleistocene men
that smelled as bad as I will
hunted mastodon—
filthy labor at Pressline Services
to augment adjunct’s pay—
archaic printing presses
dismantling – scrubbing
wallowing in ink and grease
elephantine feelings of calamity
and hunter-provider anxiety
can I trust my girl?
(she didn’t return a text)
god I need this work
(don’t fuck it up)
and knowing what little I do
about human psychology—
bilateral religious Band-Aids
likely covered the same chafed psyches
an inescapably whirling vortex

– David R. Cravens