one from the road

like after deciding
that you can make it
88 more miles to the next bathroom,
which is what the sign tells you
somewhere near memphis
despite the three
double-espresso caffe-lattes
you slammed not only to wake up but also to combat the slush
the chill of
snow flurries in the air
even though it is late march
and everyone around you is on
spring break headed for the florida
panhandle and
just when you thought
you could go no further
and was about to pull over
and make some yellow snow…

your poem is the sign
off the interstate that reads
your poem is
real butter on fluffy white grits
instead of the usual
served up at every highway
waffle shop you ever stopped at
between arizona and daytona;
your poem is
walking up to a quarter slot
in vicksburg
with your last fifty cents
and finding 100 credits on it
someone accidentally left behind
for you;
jennifer your poem is
a reminder
that angels move among us
and they love to write too.