Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe

April, and

I see her on the road:

She’s going to score another gram.

She’s borrowing a stick of butter.

She’s having an affair.

She’s going undercover.

She is terminal, she is intelligent, she is furious and sad;

She is framed by my dashboard and rearview.

I pass the Don’t Fence Me In truck,

I pass the church of the Holy Redeemer.

The dead deer at the side of the road twitches, and I hope

We never meet

Right now she is everything