Nothing lasts. 

Not the orange smoke-stack moon over Exit 0, 
Or the smell of the Ohio as shore shanty lights 
Fall out of the rear-view. 

And dial fumbling won't hold the signal long 
To hear a story about a teenage coma, 
11 years of miracles in a room with weeping statues. 
Hundreds of miles away, people touch her hair; 
All you can do here is wish a moment into the cornfield 
And hope to wake without the taste of regret. 

So you try to think of someone else's taste, 
Sweet strawberry tequila burn, 
Smooth as skin and electric;  
Coming August storm wind 

On a street a little too empty. 
Spilling blood and secrets 
Against a corner lamp. 

At the world's edge end of the block 
A car passes, familiar and wrong, 
Through blinking yellow lights, 
Out of the square onto 41, past 
Roadside shrines and 
"Jesus Saves" signs, 
Into another state 

It passes.