All day dozers mine my life.
The drab edge of a quarry gifts
the highway new brilliance, vacant
blacktop always appearing dead
and lonely on drives home, dumb flame
lilting bright on western horizon.
No one thinks to blink when methane
eternal flares long as Christ, in kids’
nostrils, in my brain juice
when Lisa says she’s incarcerated
by my own slow drifting away.
She asks why don’t we pack for Biloxi
then I say let’s hide such sweet talk.
We’re too bored to have won the lottery.