I was traveling in a car on
a street that was an endless loop
like Flintstones background of
the same few windows
same few doors, I was supposed
to do something that I couldn’t
—I couldn’t—figure—I stopped and gave
a ride to a girl with no face and no memory,
when she got in we were walking
there was no car.
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.