Not a Single Pinhole

We cut through the lot behind the lumber yard
where the county trucks park
when the paving is done.
You brought a six-pack in a wet brown sack
and set it on the toolbox
right where it balances.
I leaned my neck back against the cab glass
waiting for the Big Dipper to clean itself up,
but the clouds aren't clouds
and the air isn't clear,
just diesel exhaust and a halogen glare.

You say your cousin bought a lawnmower shop.
He took a mortgage out on his mother's house.
You say it flat like you're reading a tag,
then you scrape a yellow sticker with your thumb.

Remember when we slept
on the hood of this Dodge
and you pointed out things
that you made up on sight?
Now there's a ring around the water tower,
a bleach-colored fog that won't lift or burn off.
I rubbed my sleeve
on the lens of my frames,
I squinted hard till my temples went sore,
I washed the dust off my glasses twice,
but it's the sky that's gone.

Not a single pinhole burning through.
Just yellow soup over me and you.
Not a single pinhole burning through,
and nothing out there looking down.

You check your wristwatch under the hood light.
It's twenty past two, nobody's waiting up.
You check it again like it's going to chime.
You hate the empty space more than I do.

Not a single pinhole burning through.
Just yellow soup over me and you.
Not a single pinhole burning through,
and nothing out there looking down.

Put it in gear, let's roll.
Put it in gear, let's roll.