that coming home you caught sight,
swerved the car to avoid a deer.
Sometimes you have. It would be
in a town where you lived once,
and now drive quietly through,
Do not allow that like some fool
you may have lost the route on which
you were nearing a destination.
The flurries fixed my attention, and
I kept going. A storm then might
have caused me to alarm, pull over.
I talk to myself. Perhaps some force
wants me on streets I have not chosen.
The snow becomes heavier.
In the middle of nowhere
I lose visibility, and regain it.
A truck stop is tucked into the hills.
Safely inside, I am hungry for nothing,
but a good home-- Dutch Colonial,
four bedrooms, formal dining. Evidence
shows on me like stains on clothing:
There was no deer. In an old,
residential section, I missed my turn.
Then the road veered and startled me.
We knew that one of us had to survive.
We do not know how many of us have.
--
Paul Dickey has appeared recently in Plume, The Midwest Quarterly, Laurel Review, I-70 Review, Plainsongs, failbetter.com, and Apple Valley Review. His recent book of poetry volume was released in September, 2022 in Anti-Realism in Shadows and Suppertime. He has also released in the past year a volume of flash fiction by What My Characters Should Have Said and a poetry chapbook A Reading of Dali (Likely Misundersood) Which is Twenty Meters Becomes This Poet's Self - portrait.