Low Rent Poem of the Day
The Best Beer
Hitching across Oklahoma in July heat
I scuffed my shoes beside the highway.
In the woods on 62 a rusting truck
pulled off the road and the driver handed me
a Sunday beer. He didn't call me "Bub"
and didn't offer me a ride, but we talked
as the sun began to fade, about wanting
and not getting, about people helping
each other out. A bird called in the distance
he tipped his hat, got into the truck
and I headed home to Fayetteville.
posted by Sean @ 10:20 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
This poem sucks. You have to fix it. You can rewrite the whole poem, just change one line, or write a new poem as a comment. No judgement will be made about your poem. I also want to add that "holy hell, blogger is now allowing you to upload your own pix for free. Amazing." Also, you all might be interested in a band called the Weakerthans. I'm liking them. Thanks.
Post a Comment
<< Home