yellow gold hills of dust where that diner
tucked in among the pines and stone
it’s where we had long talk of ex
husbands and wives
over hamburgers and cokes spiked
with your flask of Jameson
before we headed back
out the door, but you left your smokes
inside and had to hit the ladies one last time
so I took the moment to use the old
phone booth by the road, door whining
open and fishing quarters from my
pocket to call back east, could still
hear “Old Shoes (and Picture Postcards)”
from your open car window, and all
of the sudden I didn’t have anyone
to call, no number coming to mind so
important that I had to slide them quarters
home, so I didn’t, I just waited for you
to come back to the car and we held hands
going faster and faster down those hills back
to the valley where we’d part ways at the
East Hollywood bus station later that night
knowing it was a long shot we’d ever
see each other again, but knowing the road
held stranger things than a reunion
so who knew? not us, not the fry cook, not Tom
Waits, or even the bus driver stealing me north
one last time along our golden coast
before we both became memories at last
Previously appeared in Feral Kingdom (Kung Fu Treachery Press, 2019)
James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Feral Kingdom, Nights Without Rain, Dead City Jazz, What Lies In Wait, and other collections of poetry and fiction. He is a former editor at Writer’s Digest, a graduate from a now defunct Vermont college, and a reviewer of indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.