a poem by Tom Short
In the dead center of January —
in the dead center
of night
I drove to Meijer
to watch for cars
with one headlight.
[I was back home and drinking with a girl]
Sad Americans,
I found none.
All Americans in Meijers
at 4:00 a.m.
are spreading equal light.
I coughed hard until
I threw up out my window
and tried not to cry.
Where are all the one-
headlighted monsters of
my youth?
My brother and I
tailed
on 131, northbound
to where people rode
motorcycles or snowmobiles,
depending on the season.
I waited.
In Meijer’s parking lot
for a snowmobile or
perhaps a dirtbike but
only saw 2 police cars
pull over 1 maroon escort.
Poor dumb bastard
stuck in dead night
with no idea that America
is running full throttle
