The road calls
its whispering song
as early trucks whine,
red-shifting down the highway,
past the heavy curtains
of our room.
But we’re ready,
early risers,
eager to begin.
The motel lot is already alive,
as sleepy travelers
coffee steam rising
with the morning mist,
dream of going
to the coast,
to the mountains,
to the desert
To glittering Las Vegas,
Going
to see all the places
In the thick triple A book,
following sure, red lines
on bright, creased maps,
but on my dark dashboard
the glowing GPS,
polite, sure girl
leads the way.
This road has called us
over and over,
and this time
we are going
east, into the rising sun,
as bright white lines flash
like years in our headlights,
quickly forgotten
and always another
flying into another
never looking back
to see where we were
only seeing now
as this now blurs
into the next now
and the future
never really
is.
But such philosophy
can be dangerous
at 75 miles per hour,
so turning on the radio
we glide down I-5.
It’s a fast road,
but straight as a
boring dream,
until, beyond Bakersfield,
crossing the
high eastern limit
of the great, green valley,
suddenly we break free
into the dry Mojave,
into a space so wide
that the pink, morning sky
arches its bright back
all the way
to space.
Time itself
could get lost here,
but not us!
Time never had a GPS girl
course-correcting,
cheerful guide
to lead us
on our summer’s journey
across wide America.
(7/10/2010)
(7/10/2010)
