Empty. A road so desolate
you can pull right over to piss,
not one thought of civility.
Locust clouds of dust
linger on the horizon,
over this land of shriveled conscience.
I moisten the parched earth,
waste masquerading as gift,
until I am miles of asphalt.
What we give, what we withhold –
endless road, particulate sky,
steady drip of a snake’s tooth.
Click here to read Matthew J. Andrews on the origin of the poem.
Image by Jahmanz Williams on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer. He is the author of the The Hours and I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember. He can be contacted at www.matthewjandrews.com.
Latest posts by Matthew J. Andrews (see all)
- Panamint Valley Road - October 17, 2025