// The Technicolor Burning Bush

A Poem by Connor Wolfe

Photo by Conor Samuel

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In the misty morning

beyond murky mirages

I hear the voice of god in the hum

of the neon sign at the rest stop

where the caravan of displaced desperadoes

and expats post-up for the

bottomless cup of coffee

at the nighthawk counter

where Mary is selling her life for a dollar a table.

She calls my prodigal-self, Hun

and for the whole of the blue plate special

I am not an orphan.