Both the hitchhiker and I –

she might have been a Julia –

were trying to find something:

she, Utopia,

me, a Good and Honest Heart.

The born-again couple

who sold me the Packard

swore it would take me

at least as far as

the next Mardi Gras.

Julia and I drove it through

the green hills of the Ozarks

until the hoses blew and tires flattened.

We left it by the roadside,

radiator smoking.

She joined a commune

near Cape Girardeau.

I thumbed to Kansas City, found

its massive trees lit by November sun.

Blood was everywhere, even in the leaves.

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