The epitome of isolation –
somewhere in the Bayou, in Barely-USA-UP,
or Arizona (xeriscaping
works wonders out there, sagebrush
(cool, clear water, water,
water, water) and saguaros)
– the perfect place for a robbery-turned-double-homicide.
No one to chase you when you run, so why
run at all? Take your sweet time, mosey
into the cochineal sun.
What would it be like to live on the lam?
(When I was young I imagined making
my getaway on the back of a stout young sheep.)
No credit cards, no honest work, maybe washing off
the grease stains at a dive diner
or knocking over a new gas station
every time you needed a few more gallons in the tank.
We used to talk about where we’d hide the bodies
(quicklime and ammonia),
but if we were near enough
maybe we could simply take them to the sea?