hula girls, forty some odd they
test their ukuleles as you will yourself to
drive to the state park.
it is six in the morning;
late enough in the year for the sun to
wink in your rearview from the direction of the water, you are here to
pursue the greatest plains
the great in plain
you’re not alone.
dance on? they may, and their hips will
seesaw to and fro
their untuned ukuleles reimagined as the restless
hum inside your radio;
a fly does yoga, dead in your cupholder
while six different chain restaurants
beg for lucky seven
and the dives?
they stand solid
upon the silo signs,
along the 309
in the place where cedar fills your eyes
and the weather stays
(more or less)
your parent’s perfect sixty-five.

– Sheridan Davis