Poetry of
M Neff Brown

a summer day, at an I-70 truck stop service station

with a hard taquito and golden eggroll and

plastic, thin bottled water

Walking out the convenience center door you don’t

notice a woman holding a child

behind you, and as the door swings back

there’s the uncomfortable interaction of,

‘oh I’m sorry’ and ‘it’s ok’, 

but surprised

you feel the sincerity from

your lips; and assume she left hearing it

A service technician walks around

the corner, covered in oil. His dark

jumpsuit. Something about

that blue collar work in the hot sun,

reminds you, somehow, of America

you worry, as you do, lately about 

your high blood pressure, the

absurdity of the meal clutched in 

a paper boat; how much more

sodium can you take?

And walking towards your car,

heat in your face, looking out at dark

blue-green soy fields

sweat collects on your water,

you feel free (besides your blood

pressure) and you think back to 

that rural madonna, her words filling your ears