Stopping by my Grandpa’s Mid-December

I sludge the mountain pass
to his trailer—coin collection,
Israeli flags, Civil War figurines,
Hot Wheels parked on the VCR
beside a dogeared Art of the Deal.
Again he points out the polaroid:
my kid dad dogpiled under cousins.

We claw tear here packets
of mayo, mustard, relish. I dig for jokes,
silence like greasy finger folds.
We soak the Safeway hoagie—
cling-wrapped, presplit. Got sides, too
he says, elbows quivering to
Fritos and potato salad,

bumping the ceramic Christmas tree.
He tells the same joke about my boozed cousin’s
baseball topping it twenty years ago.
Superglued boughs shade shepherds
we stuffed in a popsicle stick barn
way before snowballing surgeries
and the reverse mortgage.

Terwilliger Curves

I’m flooring the Terwilliger curves,
curling Portland’s fern swivels
like a moss browed lunatic,
like everyone else,
I gotta slow down next time,

kids backseat drumming our headrests
with rolled coloring books,
they’re slamming into each other—
shrunken Hulk Hogans
buckled to the teacup ride,
hollering and hauling ass,

I-5 tumbler class and you give me
that Are you nuts? glare again,
your stare says it all: simmer, or we’re the Carola
crumpling under a five o’clock
semitruck, sliding the banks
like a bumpered buck,
spilling our guts just before the exit,
wrecking everyone’s plans

—wet heat, honked congestion.
I ease off, stare
at the bug shards caulking
my windshield crack,
clock the check engine light
I’ve ignored since January.

Lot Boys at the Dick Hannah Auto Mall

In a hotboxed wash bay
we soap a new Subaru,
midnight blue, just sold.

We the limber
soot drippers,
dingo-nosed
wagon circlers.

Our hose surf froths
the hood, scatters
moonroof bubbles,
belly pipes sopped.

We the many-fingered bridegroom,
the boys who backed this bitch
off the display ramp this morning,

taunting highway divorcees,
drifters in Patagonia puffer vests,
bucket hat mud johns
ready to credit card a new romp.

Our last joy ride—
gravel donuts
on the way to the gas station.

Who the hell buys these?

I dunno…
archeologists,
stepmoms with lake houses,
those guys who wear carabiners.

Back in the wash bay
we’re silent—
microfiber mop rubs,
licorice spatter of tire shine,
windshield razors stripping sticker residue,
the sump pit gargling our sauna juice.

ZZ Top at Spirit Mountain Casino

Seafoam carpet feeding the slot hall, flowing gin
and clam strips. Lava lamp chandeliers shelter
videopoker booths—footballs, leprechauns and fish
waltz a line of screens limescaled with smoke.
We cross the channel: plates of charred sirloin,
Confederated Tribes of the Grand Ronde gift shop

peddling Pendleton bathrobes, ATMs calling
jackpot lickers to longshot last stabs, Jacuzzi
queens scarfing buffet crab. We reach the stage,
suck thirty-buck daiquiris, scream and clap. Behold
the bearded elders: shimmering yokel pimps
shuffle the stage, guitar gyres calling Keno fiends,

leatherneck husbands driving to the coast,
stopping since it’s on the way, punch-card women
wailing has-been dirges. Speak, Ray-Banned
Sinai ascenders. Teach us your mud-nut shudder.
Speak of gifts flowing from stone-rigged tables,
glittered godhead of Guadalupe Peak.

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