issue 31 > poetry > blossom
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Cross Country
by Laurel Blossom
Rain pulls me from sleep
like a woman hauling buckets
from a wishing well, leaving the water
restless and unsettled.
Outside, a single car on the wet night street.
The driver could have been my brother,
who liked to drive long distances
in darkness. I think
I could have made him happy.
Under the bedclothes, echo of a radio, dim
dashboard lights, empty road ahead.
The center strip points like a finger — this way —
miles adding up, like sheep, counting down
to almost nothing.