Degrees of Hell at Hattiesburg
pour from a spigot like bad luck.  You
drive naked outskirts hard for the freeway
out of a town whose one & only side's
as wrong as your last right.  The dashboard light
blinks low fuel—to say nothing of your ego—
so you stop at a tumbledown station

for a fill-up.  Map unfurled, you ask directions.		
The towheaded attendant stares past you,
his thoughts drifting like fumes.  I don't think I'd go
anywhere, he muses, & in a way,
you're grateful.  Up ahead flutter the lights
of a very greasy spoon.  You decide

on coffee & apple pie with directions on the side.
The oddly pretty waitress's mission
in life's simply to treat folks polite.
Yeah, right.  I don't see it on the menu,
she cracks, painted nail scrolling for "free whey."
You plunk money on the table & go

blindly down a dead-end street.  Years ago,
she might have fallen for you, tossing aside
pencil, pad & apron, running away
with your licentious imagination.
Now, obese & gray as a cloud, you
wait for the blankity-blank signal light

to turn gangrene.  You feel a twinge of delight
cutting carelessly through the escargot
of traffic for a parking space, but you
leave the bar thirsty.  You're driving.  Besides,
they're closed for quote-unquote renovation.
Well, that's how they turn you away anyway.

You're too gullible.  As for the thruway,
take a left at the dogleg after the last light.
A snickering cop gives you a citation
for something termed your failure.  Your Yugo
runs hot through bleak countryside,
so you pull off.  Your engine dies.  You 

wave for the moron yelling at you to go
around.  Headlights flash.  The blonde by his side
frames the gesticulation meant for you.