stormy weather

we sat in the strom-darkened truckstop drinking the last of their coffee
listening to hail & the words of the seneca woman

before finding the black metal death traps and falling quickly in cold water
bone striking rock

son of beech leaves and credit cards
black storm wind rustling through your files
But there's Venus and the crescent moon flitting behind ragged clouds

billy collins tells me poems are emotions
and the radio preacher tells me imagination is gone
coffees three and four
dark.
Only trucks.
And dark.