F I S H I N G A T M I D N I G H T T O H I D E
F R O M T H E D A S H B O A R D S A V I O R S
Damion Higbie
Forgive us. We know you are watching
from the orange light of the radio,
that somewhere between the windshield
and the tackle-box on the floor
you have already damned our souls,
that you are busy drafting
the blueprint to our own custom
hell: an after-life of beer cans
and loose change and torn receipts
from every gas station here to Baton Rouge,
one endless slide beneath the chin
of a nodding dashboard doll.
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