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A few selected poems
Pacific Junction, Iowa When the tire blew out in a most spectacular fashion, prompting the comment,” That’s not a tire – that's a rim with a miniskirt!” Praise be to the long-haired boy from Iowa who stopped at the intersection of I-29 and Pacific Junction to extend his help to me. You take your chances accepting offers from strangers. Statistics: Many predators have been described as clean-cut, nice-looking gentleman. That thought did nothing to assuage my fear of strangers, even ones with mechanical skills. He offered to take my spare back to his house and fill it, refused my money, warned me to drive carefully. Wasn't he a stringy-haired angel in greasy sweatpants. Wasn't he.
Photo by Heidi Hermanson
A Cure For Pain Would it seem a sacrilege to waste this time on tears: given all prisms, even the muddy Mo resembles onyx tonight. So turn. The river you step in now is not the water you stood in yesterday. Step away and pirouette through soft hushed snow into gleaming night.