Yourself in His Crocodile Boots

David Hernandez

Driver picks up a hitchhiker in Georgia.
Hitchhiker says thanks.  Driver says don’t talk

or rather his .45 caliber says it.  The truck’s tires
whisper to Alabama, to Mississippi, the night

devours the sky for dinner and the moon says
howdy to anyone who will listen.  On a road

twisting through the pillars of a forest
the hitchhiker says a prayer and God says

nothing because of the holy duct tape. 
Driver pistol-whips the hitchhiker, pulls a shovel

from his flatbed.  Says dig.  From the comfort
of your living room couch you can’t help

wondering how you would get out of this. 
It becomes a question of aiming for his head

or gun when you swing the shovel.  You think
head.  You consider gun.  Yes, most definitely

gun.  Hitchhiker clambers out from the hole
and offers you the shovel.  Okay, smart guy.