Soggy cigarettes in my back pocket,
standing in rain-soaked socks

as a car pulls up with a man in a hat.
“Where ‘ya headed?” and I reply

“Anywhere. Gotta get outta Idaho.”
There’s nothing here but sheep

and fields and fields and
we’ve eaten nothing but potatoes

for six days straight. “Maybe the coast,”
I say and climb in. “Heard its nice there.”