ROAD TO ROE


Train clattered past below.
I smoked an Oliva. Never
rode boxcars, but hitched
around SoCal as a teen.
Then thumbed nonstop
500-mile Alaskan summer
ride. Anchorage to Homer.

Camped at a farm, people
played midnight volleyball
(bright 23½ hours per day).
Stallion in heat galloped
alongside fenced mares,
almost ran over my tent.

Flew on this toothpaste tube
plane west to Dillingham.
Mexicans got me working
that unsafe salmon chopper.
(“You’re the best at it!”)
Hundreds of cut off sockeye
heads stared up from concrete.

“Black Hole Sun” blared
out old boombox, followed
by mariachi tunes. When
schools swam thickest,
shifts went beyond 24 hours.
Except for one guy who
just snored inside his bag.

Burned fishy clothes
upon exit. Bearded men
guzzled liquor bottles.
Native Americans drove
only paved road. Lone bar
opened, blew paycheck.