George Moore
Some see it as the end of the road,
but then the road goes on,
perhaps into nowhere, into the sands
that wash away things somebody’s tried
desperately to save. But last chance
places are always at the ends of things,
or at the beginnings. This café
with its half-hinged sign, its clouded,
sun-streaked glass, is just one place
where the universe turns a corner
into Chaos, on a stretch of highway
no one can quite remember the name of.
If you buy sundries from the store,
they are brittle as dinosaur bones.
The museum has a two-headed snake
and artificial cactus stalks turned lime green.
The formica table tops and stools
are patterned with grandmothers’ cloth,
and if you buy gas, it is the rusty,
sandy, petroleum of the desert.
But if this is truly your last chance
after all, it’s only one last chance,
and if you survive you’ll remember it
as an outpost of your future life.
