The radio counts miles in static and song.
Three hours of worn-out melodies
and a preacher selling salvation
for nineteen ninety-five, shipping included.

A beautiful billboard lawyer leans forward,
red lips inviting, blouse open
like she's selling more than legal services.
Need a lawyer? Janet Stone will fight for what you deserve.
Justice comes easy, she claims, just call the number.

Time rolls under my tires
like my mother's worn rosary beads.
Exit signs listing faded towns I knew,
before I stopped coming home
for Christmases, birthdays, funerals:
Millersville, Cedar Falls, etc.

The rich green hills fold and unfold
just as I remember,
etched and carved
by this black ribbon highway
that funnels me home.

Half an inch of cold coffee left,
the rest bleeding my white shirt brown.
Twenty miles to the Pine Fork Gas-N-Go
the billboard says,
but I'm tired,
running late,
and wearing my mistake.

Mile marker 247:
I'm thirty minutes from faces
that will ask about my life
like it's the weather.
Safe. Surface. Polite. Prying.

Nothing that acknowledges what we both know.
The only reason I would come back home
is currently at Blackstone Mortuary Services Inc.

Wearing her Sunday best.
Clutching her rosary beads.
Eyes closed.
Lying still.

I am not gone.
I rest in yellow.
I rest on all of your roads.

Lying still.
Waiting.

But my eyes
are no longer closed.
They tunnel and pierce
the waiting horizon.

For when you come,
even as a mirage,
I will know it is you.