You drive with the sun in your eyes until blindness becomes another way of seeing. A corona of blue highways emerging from behind an eclipsed sun. You stop for any rumor of a restaurant serving berry pies that taste like the last woman you loved. If the waitress offers a coloring book menu and a set of crayons, you thank her for the gift. And order pie. Then weave through the curves and dead-ends of the mazes with wild orange strokes. When business slows and the booths empty, you move so the sunlight sets on your shoulder. Your vision filled with the rebus clues of your lover’s goodbye. The jukebox plays backroad songs only you can hear. Cracked rearview mirrors. A woman wearing a maroon dress. While the cook and the waitress laze over a game of backgammon, you connect the dots to reveal a cartoon turtle holding a fork and knife. Stay for the evening rush, for the aroma of home-made pie. The waitress pauses to dab sandalwood perfume on her wrists. You used to breathe Taboo behind her ears. At your booth you wear a crayon to its nub but find new colors at the cash register. Rhubarb and peach. After the Blue Plate Special, you finish another slice of pie and labor over the words on the menu’s jumble. SISK. RESEID. VELO.
Michael Brockley has had recent poems published in Facing Poverty, The Tipton Poetry Journal and Panoplyzine. Forthcoming poems will appear in Flying Island and Atticus Review. Brockley is winding down his career as a school psychologist and trying to learn how to navigate the world of e-submissions.