For hours we have driven
down dusty, dirt roads passing
one after another, the rotting animals,
flattened to the pavement.
I count them, one, three, seven, ten.
It’s a means of passing time and
getting you off my mind, momentarily.

You sit in the passenger seat with the
map flattened against the dash and
your navy ball cap pulled low.
The roadkill becomes sidelined when
I realize, the dead animals are not the
ones running from something,
running from another greater animal,
a predator, only to meet death on this
decrepit highway.
I am the one running, driving seventy-five
miles an hour from a predator I cannot
escape no matter how fast I drive.
I am the prey.

The scenes outside the window no longer
tell a tale of death, but one of freedom,
freedom from the hunt, the chase.
You’ve mentioned before what you feel
for me, and though, we’ve known each
other for years, anything more than
friends would surely ruin us.
This little trip we took for summer
fun leads nowhere good, leads to a place
from which I doubt we will return the same
as we left.
I know once we reach our destination,
you’ll go in for the ****
and I won’t stop you.