We peeled our faces from wet tent flaps and sat in puddles wondering where our minds had been when we began this trip.
Our bicycles, laden down with sodden nuts and cloth groaned like a pair of ornery pack mules through town after town of trailer park gloom.
Bead and beauty stores line the road,
Here– bodies dead pet iguana.
Up on the seventh hill of seven devils road
The sight of the of the sea feels new, as though we hadn’t slept in sand the past week,
And the sun on my chin feels new,
As though my skin has never warmed to an afternoon of basking.
FRANKY FRANCES CANNON 