Ash Russell

interstate 15: mile markers 171-178

171. creosote along the black and yellow slick of a highway,
        tumbleweed caught in barbed wire tangles like the knots of
        a novice boy scout
172. the unbroken whir of tires on too-hot asphalt,
173. hand on thigh, thigh on vinyl seat, thick sheen of heat
        like plastic wrap over blush-burned skin
174. too short-shorts, calloused heels, worn flat flip-flops and
        pink frosted lipstick from too many season ago, garish and
175. russet beard over leather skin, sweat-soaked bandana
        sagging into flat, dark eyes, an empty smile
176. hand on thigh, hand on hand, acrylic click against gold
        band and green skin
177. Baby, he says, thick, you know I won’t do it again, right?
178. Of course, baby, she says, I know how much you love me.

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