Never been on a greyhound,
but a man who accused me of rape has,
and in San Francisco I sat next to my mother who eyed the homeless man in the corner,
as we rode to the coast, looking for bridges and chocolate,
I dreamt we rode to ghost towns filled with dead-mine history.
Cowboys and hanging gangs walking the streets decades and decades before,
that promise of gold dooming them all.
The Donners paid the cannibal price,
and sometimes I wonder if they made it off easy,
for winter can make monsters of us all,
and they only consumed the dead.
