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The New York State Thruway
by Carole Bugge
An Indian-looking woman serves coffee
on the New York State Thruway
Outside, boulders line the highway,
huge rocks with souls
Streams meander, filled with fish
whose ancestors her ancestors caught,
consuming the spirit of the animal with the flesh
Inside the restaurant, she hands a plastic packet of Coffeemate
to a fat man in a pink polyester shirt
This Is A Non-Dairy Product
-Can I heat that up for you, Sir?
Outside, the wind howls with the voices
of ghost tribes passing by
The coffee station shines, metallic under florescent light
The fat man spills a tiny drop of egg yolk on his shirt,
yellow on pink
Through the mist, white birch and pine, tall and thin,
stand stiff with unspoken secrets
Tiny raindrops pattern the windows, clear polka dots on glass,
turning to ice
The boulders are covered in a bed of white ice,
stolid, solid, wind-sheared rock
Inside, the electric fan begins to whir
She pours herself a cup of coffee
Outside, the boulders wait for her.
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