Geoff Collins

This part is true.
Somewhere right now,
a man stands in a car lot, confused.
His hands hang unused at his sides
and the sun declines across the highway.
He does not understand
why he is here.
The car lot is already closed.
Fields of pavement
are swallowing the approach of night.
The man looks down the frontage road
then up at the quilted blanket of sky.
From here he can see the highway.
He can picture himself
floating away on its stream of lights
as sirens echo on the wind.
Across the road, the hotel sign
glows with memories
but does not reassure him.
He has no knife,
no matches, no kindling.
Without a fire, he could perish
in the talons of creatures
that come hunting in the night.
He climbs a hill up to the ridge
and walks through fields of new corn
trembling in the moonlight.
Behind an old barn he lies down to rest.
He stares for hours into the darkness,
but no matter how hard he tries,
he cannot see the end.