Highway 74, a straight drive.
Nothing to look at but trees and fields,
cars and asphalt, gray and black.
Decrepit barns dot the highway
all across this ******* state.
I am getting closer.
The meter on the dashboard drawing closer
to empty, I can finish the drive.
Heavy static coming through the solid-state
speakers, more fields.
At least I’m off the highway.
Winding roads, tires black.
Sky turning blue, purple, then black.
The road and I have become closer.
601, I cross over the two-lane highway
and continue the drive.
Emptiness from the autumn harvest, barren fields.
Sometimes I love this state.
Closing in on the state
border, headlights piercing through the black,
can’t see the fields.
Pedal steady at 55, all the time coming closer,
four hours since the start of this drive.
The road rises and falls, breathing the contours of the land, a living highway.
Into the driveway, far from the highway,
another mile, another state.
Physical exhaustion, no mental drive.
Into the tungsten light, out of the black.
This place makes me feel closer
to my roots, the countryside and the fields.
Tomorrow, I’ll see the same fields
I saw as a child. The same highway,
the one that brings me closer,
the one that leads out of this state.
Sleep is black.
Dream of the drive.