Have you ever gone west. On a loaf of bread

and a jar of jam? Sticky. The vinyl of a country

squire station wagon pulling at your sweaty

thighs. Have you ever gone west. Where the streets

are piped fresh with scents made to mask

centuries of systemic racism—they come

in warm waffle cone and fresh fudge. Wild Bill

Hickok is always the hero you lick from cotton-candy

fingers before you pull your toy gun. It’s a long drive

when you’re five. If you’re going west. And a loaf

of bread—white and foam-filled, like damp chewed

gum pressed between your fingers—is always what

is offered to get you to what’s just up ahead. The promise

of a palace made of corn. The heads of dead white dudes

carved on a mountain. You kick the seat continually.

You wonder about the shape and size of the word jackalope.

You lick the glob of grape jelly melting down the seat.

You’re going west. The tarmac steams, a hissing oven.

This trip, a giant loaf of bread stretching on forever.