thumb frozen, ears red in the cold heat
Interstate-25 apocalyptically empty, windless and mute
my northbound shoes the only sound
on the dull dawn’s ashen, soundless stage
what other survivor of a sleepless rocky mountain night
would I encounter? when would I see another face?
the cars came with the sun as it struggled to make
white progress in a gray sky
they passed me, again and again
like I was not there, or
little more than a faded billboard
they chose not to read
when her brake lights came on,
a half mile down the road, I ran towards her
wondering if I had been an afterthought
a simple ambiguity
her black Porsche 911 backed up to meet me
a turquoise covered hand opened the door
extended itself to me in the warm sea of air
in her tiny cabin, “Hi, I’m Myra”
“Denver?” I asked
“No, just the Springs, but we’ll see what he can do”
and Myra and I flew by the cars that had passed me
I gave each a haughty stare, those slower vessels
that had left me there, to freeze on a Colorado plain
“Escaping” from Taos she said, from a bar
on Canyon Road, where “he” had turned on her,
spilled their sacred secrets like beer on the tavern floor
she made her exit when he was in the john,
******* or puking, she knew not which, now,
at 90 miles per hour with a stranger half her age
she was spilling her own secrets into my eager ears
her black mini skirt, red skin tight sweater spoke to me
as much as her words--she was there for the taking
precious flesh ready for greedy consumption
her stone heavy hand touched my leg, punctuating her story
with breathy exclamation points, plaintive question marks
and prescient pregnant pauses, I wondered
where she would take me or if she would take me
“Denver?” she asked, “Mind a little detour?”
it didn’t matter where, thumb time
is measured in miles, not minutes,
and Denver was as cold as the road
from which she plucked me
her house was a wall of glass,
with Pikes Peak framed perfectly
by her bedroom window, and when
we finally swam smoothly on the waves of her waterbed
she cried out that all was beautiful again
now that she was home, in the shadow of her mountain
in the arms of a stranger, whose seed rolled down her leg
as she moved farther from the Taos tavern and
whatever truth she could not face
I wanted more of her, but the intoxication of strangers
lasts only minutes longer than full blooded wine
she called me a cab, and in a black silk robe
glided me to the door, where she laid $100 in my hand
“The plane is warm and the airfare is only $39”
I tried to kiss her one final time
when the taxi stopped at her steep drive,
but she buried her face in my chest,
“No more, he will be here soon”
the midmorning sun now burned the sky blue
the cabbie slapped his meter on
and I was back to measuring minutes and miles
I looked back for as long as I could
and saw the perfect reflection of her mountain
in all that shining glass, her black silhouette
only a curious slice in the reflected portrait
of the beautiful fleeting morn
one of a group poems known as "the thumb tales", based loosely on my experiences hitchhiking over 40 years ago..."we shared a camel" and "recurring dream" are two others in this group
