Picture if you will Tony Hoagland and me, he in his Donkey Gospel hat and me wearing my Hustle ring, in his car patched with silver duct tape and sagging passenger mirrors discussing vehicles as metaphors
There is, in a nearby field, a retired show horse living out whatever days it can win, a white horse speckled with brown flecks. Its limp mane welcomes your hand. On its face,
I’m fourteen and the smell of singed hair circles me like the halo of a pre-Renaissance Madonna. Loss already on my face. A summer crush holds out his fingers
I’m driving down to Tennessee, but before I get there, I stop at the Kentucky state line to fuel up and pee. The dog’s in the car and the weather’s fine. As I pump the gas a man in his black Ford F150 yells out his window about my body. I...