Hand Travel by Dave Morehouse
Tractor trailer vortex
Buffets up
And under, her collar
Thirty minutes or so
Her shoes shuffle shoulder gravel
A pickup on the horizon
Makes her turn back, slog forward
She knows better than to get in
Learned the hard way
It races by Too close
Lifts her tattered
Goodwill dress
Leaves an acid-edge scent of diesel
In its wake
The Salvation shelter of
Memphis Is a single hitch away
It would be good
To arrive before dinner soup is gone