The ghosts of them had been collecting in rags at her feet for years.
That girl'd been hiding from regretlessness,
casting boys away to dusty denial,
while studying the lonely poetry of
the "could haves"
and hiding herself under skyways and old American loneliness.
Until he came with bare feet and a strong back.
He whispered in a pre-dawn chill
talking of what faith there is left to be had in
dream lands and promise places.
In that midnight the walk didn't seem so long.
So and with hands strapped across engines
those kids became dream tinted headlights
and highway legends
and that motor purred: