In Nebraska, the driving laws are strict. We fall through a sieve of ten acres trying to be a town, roads rough to discourage tourism. Somehow I know the storm on Jupiter worsens, like a joke told the third time. Jeanie sleeps in the backseat,              the             map
imprintinting itself on her face. What else is killing me is all the people looking at the sky as if itís easier than test driving matches.          Who       wouldíve
known the moon could clear its throat like this? Anticipation limps  from farmstead  to farmstead     under     the     very
same    porch    lightóthis    one
with wolves in it, that one with bigger wolves in it.



My  house  is small and haunted.  I make  it  smaller and haunteder. On the documentaries, the herd doesnít wait for any stragglers because    there    are   places  to
be in weather. Here, the weather  is  getting colder all the time. And the clouds lean against one another sort of like how   you, in your impression of a building, collapse into yourself.  Iím just buying jeans. So, no, I  havenít  thought  of the future,  because  why?  Iím  not using it.  Plus, you know how      opening     a     door   can
make a fire bigger.


Scott Schwalenberg is an editor for HOUSEGUEST Magazine. He lives in Nebraska where he paints and teaches English at a community college.