I have miles and miles to go
toward the skin on your knees.
This road leads back to Greensboro
Upstate New York tired to swallow
my wallet and all my money.
The road is waiting to Greensboro.
I’ll go over the Shenandoah
towards front porch light and sweet tea.
I have miles and miles left to go
Virginia convicts pour blacktop rows
by the road in Madison county,
I still have miles and miles left to go
And I will sleep with my pillow
tucked in the blind spot of my Chevy
on the way back to Greensboro
And until the fuel gauge slopes to E
And until the road ends beneath your body.
I still have miles left to go
on the road to Greensboro.
Any Strange House
Cassie, with ashtray before the mirrored vanity
picks her cigarettes, as a cherry arcs off its tree.
Smoke rolls down, across layered mineral blush
it settles by her hands. She cups her breasts, flush.
Her precious heft that once called respected men
away from distant lights within hill-top mansions
now, just common tits inside any strange house.
Oh, her breasts were a secret kept in a silk blouse.
And night washed in, across the bedroom’s floor,
naked cigarette filters, waiting bottles of perfume.
Cassie cleanses herself of the paisley cotton dress.
She breaches in the doorframe of her living room.
She’s an open-hearted tumbler spilling Bourbon
plunging head-deep in the sofa’s parting cushions.
Ethan Fogus is currently pursuing a BFA in poetry at Georgia State University, where he is also a copy-editing intern for Five Points Literary Magazine.