Warren Travels With His Father

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in the 
dense Montana heat, the BLM vehicle musty 
and smelling of oil, sweat, and age. 

Warren 
skips school for those two days—two days 
alone with Dad, staying in old, decaying 

motels 
where floors feel slick with thin linoleum and windows
glow behind crepe-paper drapes and 

single 
burner kitchenettes transform outdated army 
C-rations into exotic feasts and 

lumpy 
bedframes support old-fashioned 
metal springs that squawk when 

Warren’s 
eighty pounds and Dad’s one-eighty 
shift. At dawn, they load the truck, 

hunker 
down against an early chill, and set out for 
the boondocks, Dad to hunt elusive 

bench marks 
and pace off invisible section lines, Warren to watch
and etch each sifting outline in 

his mind, and store them to relive once they two again
return and reassume their separate lives.