POEM

The Search

We had no bed to lie in, so we drove —
The night was downpour-dark, the back roads mud
Below a bed of gravel — tempted by
A drive with old machines covered in crud,

We slipped in, stopped, “It’s too much Texas Chain
Saw Massacre,” you said, so out we backed
And off again we searched the woods the road
Too often spread into. And so we tracked