I-80

By Sunnie Gaylord

A man in the lobby with his arm in a sling,
blood flaking from his face and hands,
staples holding together his scalp where his dark hair had been shaved,
in ill-fitting clothes-not his, no shoes.

Dried blood flaking from his face and hands,
he tells me he lost his wallet in the semi.
In ill-fitting clothes-not his, no shoes,
he explains to me how it rolled.

He tells me he lost his wallet in the semi,
while the pebbles of glass wept across his face.
He explains to me how it rolled,
how his head had come apart.

While the pebbles of glass wept across his face,
he said he didn’t see his daughter,
while his head was coming apart,
and that’s how knew he wasn’t going to die.

He said he didn’t see his daughter,
and he didn’t think about finding his wallet,
only that today he wasn’t going to die.
So no, he didn’t have any identification.

He didn’t think to find his wallet,
staples holding together his scalp where his dark hair had been shaved,
so no, he didn’t have any identification,
just a man in the lobby, arm in a sling.

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Categories: Issue 5, Poetry, Wyoming Workshops | 1 Comment

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One thought on “I-80

  1. Bret Norwood

    Nice bit of verse, Sunnie. It flows well and the repetition really makes it.

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