I’ve always wanted to see
the skies of Montana, or even
Wyoming, wherever that is;
can I find it on a map?
I’ll check the forecast,
pack up my medicine and
toothbrush and clothes,
and I’ll just fucking go.
Set out on the highway
With “head west” being
the only thing I know,
a road that may or may not
be lonely, and my cat,
she comes, too.
I’m going to die
if I don’t get away from you.
Today’s poetry prompt words were: Wyoming, forecast, and medicine.
Photo by Neil Wallace on Unsplash
