Page 12 of Wayfarers

watching from behind my sunglasses

and they noticed. I didn’t know it until I lit

the firepit and a pair of them, white kids with dreadlocks,

did a drive-by of my campsite, waggled

their fingers hi at me. I smiled tight and waved

back, Winslow uselessly happy at my feet.

They came by again, walking in a loop.

This time the girl sat down.

What’s up, I’m Dawn, she said, and close-mouth smiled.

The guy said nothing. He stared into my Mercedes.

Hi, I said. Nothing else. Was I being a bitch?—

That’s when the guy picked up a stick and threw it

and Winslow startled, slipped his collar, and bolted after.

Knox The Girl

I saw her when our caravan first entered

the campground to dump our waste, enjoy

some hot running water, and hawk

our odds and ends. There were always

the sort at these places who eagerly participated

in our economy of scrounged and crafted

goods and mind-altering substances, if only

because they knew their role and relished playing it.

She sat barefoot in the open door of a Mercedes Sprinter,

eyes fixed to a phone, absentmindedly petting

a dog while she scrolled. Her hair was the yellow

of the dry summer grass that blankets each side of I-80

through Nebraska’s high plains, before you hit

Cheyenne. She had a doll’s features but stormy,

contemplative eyebrows that made her seem older

than she looked, which I thought