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BEHIND THE GARAGES OF THIS COUNTRY
Behind the garages of this country
there are tires choked by grass. Sad.
But, listen, there's
a woman behind the counter
selling petrol and road-food.
You can count on her;
Underwritten by a weariness
two thousand miles across,
limbs set to burst with dust.
She'll be serving here
(looking out the back door
at the tinstrip toilets)
this time next year.
Still here? Still here,
bone-tired, grass-stricken
Waiting for cinders or for rain
Fingering soiled loose change,
oil and oil-grime caught
in grins, ears, frownlines, transit lanes.
Beaten by no flood
Blackened by no hopeful flame
Pay for your coffee, shed dust, then leave,
This is her wide domain.
© David McComb
Thanks to Per Stam for this from Swedish publication Katten Tidskrift (Cat Magazine) 1988.
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