Roadside

He spits seeds in the tin

working through the brown bag.

One cherry, two, one dozen.

The red juice speckles his t-shirt,

his cuticles highlighted crimson.

The farmstand was a welcome reprieve

from long days on the road.

He glances at her, smiles,

tosses a cherry at her head.

She dodges with a yelp

then adjusts to catch the next in her mouth.

Looking around, it’s miles and miles of empty space

as far as the eye can see.

What brought them here, so far from home?

That first intention is a faint memory now.

She takes a sip of her Diet Coke and

pulls her baseball cap down snug.

A car whizzes by trailing exhaust and

a cigarette out the passenger window.

She lays back, her duffel cushioning her head.

Above her, up and all around

it’s only blue.