On the road I give to long naps and drift
in sleep-time on asphalts of Tennessee.
You are not driving when yellow sun lifts
eyelids open for the Grand Ole Opry.
I spend an hour walking to a campsite
in Arkansas, where I ***** my finger
on a thorn-bush. Painful like our night
words in paper cuts, cradling our shivers.
When I reach Texas a cowboy hat at
the rodeo would look good on you and
now I want to call you, tell you that.
Body hot, sweaty, and I’m sick of land
when we reach Arizona. I can’t find
where you race rapids down rushing river,
carving canyons in the mud plates of my spine.
Desert sky can try, but can’t deliver.
This open road of freedom, letting go.
One day I chose to leave, then left. And so.