The Detectives by Jane Yeh

No matter where we go, it always looks like California.
Get in the car and drive. Our invisible friend
Comes with us everywhere, like a shadow.
He tells us how to keep moving on. We’re haunted

By news of the absurd, by doors without locks, by bottles
Rattling in six-packs like bones. The game of
What’s behind the dumpster. The game of Don’t be
Such a dick. Behind every door is another

Motel room: light as a feather, stiff as a board,
No place for the weary. By the time you read this
We’ll be gone. We can play air guitar for hours.
We can go anywhere, as long as it’s east.

The needle points a finger, the birds in the sky
Make a V, the road to hell is paved with fresh
Burritos. The case of The unwashed thermos. The case
Of Sit and spin. Behind every day is another

Freaking day: trail of breadcrumbs, devil dog, a long
Line of shrunken heads. We study the book
Where all the words are written down. We follow
The script. There are more endings than we remember.