The old toll booth keeper
still at her post, though
she cannot break a twenty
regrettably, her brains blown out,
or provide the forgotten
directions. I did try to phone,
but nobody answers.
Walked around awhile, and
I hate to say it but no one’s
survived. The dusty toothbrush
waits, my teenage
image in the dusty mirror;
and now I am afraid
I am going to be forced to disrupt
the fine layer of dust that’s been
falling all these years
on my blanket and hair—
to put my dusty clothes on,
slowly move downstairs, and
with the elderly parents
of strictly speaking
not being there, to eat
my dusty breakfast.
Spiritual Renewal and Social Transformation
The sobering lessons of early American Methodism.
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