There’s nothing more about men I need to know,
broken glass at my throat makes a hell of a chalkboard.
It’s my third night walking backroads. My lunar
witness is full over the connecting highway, weighs
on spring branches south of the state line.
I grip my axe handle as an oncoming headlight highlights
hooded fishermen on the bridge. A fish splashes.
I blow smoke. My map folds blue along the Allegheny,
the penciled plot to get back home catches
a pink light from the White Oak Diner.
I case the locals through the steamed window.
Dogwood blossoms float in neon on bare
branches. I’ll need cigarettes and a piece
of pie to rejoin the world with a steady hand,
but first I spit blood behind a tree.
Will Schmit is a Midwestern folk poet transplanted to the Redwood forests of Northern California. Will’s most recent recording, Fix My Car, A Spoken Word Mythology is available for streaming at Spotify, iTunes and at www.schmitbooks.com
Excellent. Love the title and usage of language.