Just out of Hope waiting for a ride
feeding the one horse in this town
splitting flax until your fingers are sticky
with sap and sick of dividing the hours
a truck stops so you mount the tray and ride
with the dog, three bales and a crate.
Taking a photo to prove you did run out of
Hope as you found it obscured between hills
and on, till you dismount and thank the driver
for taking you further into nowhere.
You find that high romance lives still in a toilet
as the door closes a Debussy prelude plays
and on the wall you read in red vivid
that shane loves angela 4 eva.