David Hernandez
Driver picks up a hitchhiker in Georgia.
Hitchhiker says thanks. Driver says don’t talk
or rather his .45 caliber says it. The truck’s tires
whisper to Alabama, to Mississippi, the night
devours the sky for dinner and the moon says
howdy to anyone who will listen. On a road
twisting through the pillars of a forest
the hitchhiker says a prayer and God says
nothing because of the holy duct tape.
Driver pistol-whips the hitchhiker, pulls a shovel
from his flatbed. Says dig. From the comfort
of your living room couch you can’t help
wondering how you would get out of this.
It becomes a question of aiming for his head
or gun when you swing the shovel. You think
head. You consider gun. Yes, most definitely
gun. Hitchhiker clambers out from the hole
and offers you the shovel. Okay, smart guy.