Because I can’t differentiate between Sedona and Camp Verde
our destination is never clear, we’re only closer
by the three-minute-fast car clock. If you smell a skunk or hit
a deer, you’re getting there. Javelina could be anywhere.
Because I cannot understand traffic, I feel the world
crushing us in a vise, half-Camry, half Ford pickup
with a sapphic bumper sticker, bald driver taking a hit
out of his cigarette before releasing it into the street. Because Verde
Valley is the next exit, maybe we can get food. Because closer
means I get to pee, maybe soon enough, I pick up
my leg and put it over the other. My dad listens to Brave New World
the audiobook, says we’re almost there. We could be anywhere
like yesterday, my kindergarten substitute teaching us colors: verde
green as saguaro, go, rojo means your parents hit
the brakes. Stop. Litter collects itself in amarillo lines, the world
drifts by at night so you don’t see. Objects in mirror are closer
so watch out, Huxley says, this dystopia could be anywhere.
We’re here. End recording. Next time, this is where we’ll pick up.