Wishing Wells

There is a cold quadrant of my brain
that cannot stop fixating on the small things,
I can’t even understand the directions of the street signs
that I only must rely on because I keep
dragging myself out here every time.
I am envious of the people who grew up
with parents that never let them believe
in wishing wells because lets be honest
the people who still do haven’t been
on the right side of a wish since before they were born.
I can say this because I am one of them.

It’s hard to see the lines on the road that I am walking
not that I need to, on my feet, all I really need to
worry about is headlights connected to people
who don’t stop or even worse of course
the people who actually do. What would I say to someone
offering me a ride up this road that
I’m clearly not supposed to be on?
I’m fine where I am is what I will mean
no matter what I say and even if it isn’t true
it’s the one lie I can tell that I believe.

She had a sleeve of half-finished tattoos,
but the biggest one was of a small tree
where some opossums hung from their tails
off a near broken branch. I took the coffee that she handed me,
and waited for my ride to appear in the parking lot.
I found this truck stop after walking through the evening
into the early sunrise when the vagabonds came in for breakfast.
No one talked to me besides the waitress, and the black and white
tile floor was reflective from its recent morning mopping.
When the car got there I walked out to it and rode back into town,
but I didn’t stay too long this time around.

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