Islanders

On the highway

where the steel guitar calls

from diners

Weather beaten clapboard

lost in pale grey’s landscape

Those lonely oases

where Hank Sr. and Merle Haggard

serenade biscuits and gravy

Greybeards gather

over black coffee and bacon

Shadows raised from gospel choirs

Up before dawn still

with no place to go

Finding consensus on the merits

of Ford Motor Company

Small bills and loose coins

obligatory flirtation

left for Alice

These knights of denim depart

to sail upon their heavy chassis

through seas of windswept white

dotted with stubble

Like this gulf they inhabit

Islands of humanity

between our coasts

We are tired

We are weary

Let us die off in peace