Bruised Fruit.

We're a bowl full of undesirables
and bruised fruit.

And really, who likes damaged goods?
Roads are winding and I'm a little woman driving
a boat of a truck.

Wondering where my exit is and if I should pick up something to cook for dinner.

I keep forgetting to look at the clock or the miles I've driven,
but it feels like I've been wandering ages into the rain.

Must have passed my turn,
must have gone too far, too far where there are no houses
with kinds lights and front porches.

Turn around, drive back through unfamiliar to no familiar
and repeat. With more water, less road.

Finally, there's a change to the darkness.
My brights meet the whites of a terrified doe
and we meet with shades of red and a wide
arched turn into the ditch.

Not a, but the ditch which I spent hours
or maybe minutes resting in, that cradled
my boat out of the rough river
of the highway.

Seconds break waves over the shore of the ditch
and I sit, we sit, the boat and I, we sit
the doe and I.
And no one moves.

I won't make the first move.
But she won't move, she just lays there
looking docile.

I move, I shift back into
the river of a highway
and hope it opens up into familiar
waters.

I didn't want to move first,
but she refused,
decided to lay there like bruised fruit.
An undesirable fixture on the side of the river, the road.
Maybe to be picked up by someone who enjoys damaged goods.