Pennsylvania Turnpike
Robert Beveridge
Another glass
of rice wine. d.j. gets up
moves to the window
tenth anniversary
of his father’s death
“They repainted a stretch
of the Pennsylvania turnpike
in his honor,” he says.
His shaven head glints
in the moonlight
Another glass
of rice wine, Mozart’s Requiem,
d.j. sprawled on the floor.
Another cigarette.
Measuring out our time
as we approach 35.
d.j. makes tea. “I’ve never
gone that far north
since,” he says.
We drink
and listen
to the seconds pass
They sound like waves
on rock, relentless
assault, grain by grain.
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