The Technicolor Burning Bush | A Poem
by L.M. Browning, from a forthcoming collection entitled, Drive Through the Night
In the misty morning
beyond murky mirages
I hear the voice of god in the hum
of the neon sign at the rest stop
where the caravan of displaced desperadoes
and expats post-up for the
bottomless cup of coffee
at the nighthawk counter
where Mary is selling her life for a dollar a table.
She calls my prodigal-self, Hun
and for the breadth of the blue plate special
I am not an orphan.
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