Into the Dust, by Keli D.

I’ve been trapped,
Held hostage in my Grandpa’s
Ancient Volkswagen for almost two days.
The only source of cool air
Is the wind ripping through the 5 inch cleft
In the time stained window.
My skin has fused to the hot
Vinyl and my shirt clings to
My sopping skin.
Grandma slouches in the passenger seat,
Fanning herself with a faded map.
Her aged, loose skin flutters
In the wind. The comforting sound
Of Bill Monroe’s voice is drowned
By my boisterous cousin:
“99 bottles of beer on the—“
Grandma swats her with the map,
As if she were a pesky fly.
Thank God for Grandma.
The desolate, flat land passing
Reminds me that I’m thirsty.
My tongue unwillingly sticks the insides
Of my cheeks. We pass an old
Gas station with tires strewn about the dirt.
Old pumps, almost blackened with the dust
Guard their home. A sign that seems
Lonelier than I’ve ever felt
Stands, cockeyed and insecure:
“Welcome to Marlow”.