“Holy fucking balls mother of shit christ fuckfuckfuck…”
“Jesus shitting hell motherfucking sonofabitch hell…”
“FUCK. FUCK. SHIT. FUCK ME. SHIT LIFE…”
Barreling down I-55 into Central Illinois.
Truck called Dillinger. I drive. Joey sits
Shotgun. Coldest day of the early mid-winter.
We’d made our choice. No heat. Inhaling anti-
Freeze steam. Cursing through clenched teeth.
Two pairs of socks each. Four gloves. Long johns.
Variously layered shuddering upper bodies. On
A portable cassette player barely braying through
Are Versus God and Mass Romantic. Gallows laughter.
Two hours from Chicago to Normal. Somehow we didn’t
Break down. Had we, we’d have murdered each other
On the road’s shoulder, beating hypothermia to the
Punches to one another’s hard, icy heads. All for a
Bookcase and a desk. Mike and Kristin sheltered us.
We’d make it back to the city, rearrange furniture. Meet
Up with Frankie and sit in Billy Goat Tavern with coffee.
Warm as we read in the Sun-Times of an ungodly tsunami.
