NE:  B. J. Best

                B.  J.  B e s t 

NEBRASKA

somewhere between lincoln and bonanza

on satellite radio, the clock flashed

its single digits. by ogallala,

my hat slept like a star on the dash.

we’d been talking about your wife, how she

would stand in the kitchen in late spring, hands

agitating the silver cutlery

in a wash pan after easter. the land

grew enormous as thunderheads, and cows

lowed still. one photograph you have is bowls

of sweet peas grown by her. that tiny house

stood yellow for twenty years while mouse holes

ate through everything but your memory of

this drive, her bandanna, your difficult love.

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