fifty-four, like a 

teenager – writing our names

in a bathroom stall

along a Georgia 

Highway at a truck stop where

we bought boiled peanuts

on the backside of 

nowhere as we traveled home 

on a June Sunday 

through rural towns where 

ghosts of hateful cross burners 

in white hoods still roam

scenic roads haunted

rimmed with cobalt bottle trees

haint blue porch ceilings 

remnants of feelings

fears alive and real linger 

like names etched in trees 

someone has been here 

lovers and haters alike 


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