the romances of untruthfulness

his hair was short
clothes torn
and work boots worn
needed a shower
you couldn't tell
if he fumbled in from
hard months
on dusty roads
or meant for it
to be taken that way

but the love his voice
made with the banjo

was greyhounds and knapsacks and state lines
and horizons at varying latitudes and mile markers
and gasoline and all the holy flat states