In the runoff,
rainbow slicks
mix with plastic bags.

An earthworm struggles
on the precipice
of the sidewalk.

City drains
are beer funnels
for our drunken creeks

that have no choice
but to drink
our intoxicated waste.

Oceans chug rivers
of unfiltered litter
forming trash pits
that grow like
kidney stones
with nowhere to go.

So our sick planet
is always hungover—
throwing up hurricanes
and tornadoes—
desperate to detox
the waste that’s within.

Diane’s World

Diane Keaton visited our small town last week.
She walked around the boutiques
in her bowler hat and black-rimmed glasses.

She stopped every five minutes
for a picture with a stranger—
her Hollywood smile
made her stick out in the South.

She said she was filming a movie
about a summer camp—
a nostalgic Hallmark
that makes you forget
about fentanyl and food stamps.

Now I’m at the grocery store,
and every middle-aged white woman
is wearing a bowler hat
with black-rimmed glasses—
smiling as if their teeth
aren’t wine-stained
and the cameras are
still rolling.

How’s My Driving

The tractor-trailer we’re tailgating
is asking us if we prayed today.

I have,
but not that way.
The man behind the wheel
has his window cracked
with a half-smoked cigarette
drifting out the draft.

His gold cross necklace
dangles from the rearview mirror.

I look up to him like a savior
who ignores my passing.

We approach another trailer
full of hogs
with their snouts
poking out the vents.

As we drive alongside,
one of them
looks directly at us.

I want to call the number
beneath the question
“How’s my driving?”

just to hear
a voice
and tell it
my prayer.