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This work first appeared in Gargoyle, issue #11. Please respect the fact that this material is copyrighted. It is made available here without charge for personal use only. It may not be stored, displayed, published, reproduced, or used for any other purpose without the express consent of the author or artist.
Cross-country
Rick Wilson
driving alone
tuned to late-nite radio
the comfort of another voice
momentary
blindness of high-beams
the
soft radium-glow of my dashboard
coffee
thermos
rolling
on the floor
empty.
like a greasy rag: as
if filled with sand
a dead skunk, splayed my
foot falls asleep
then a tire thump against
tile gas-pedal
its lingering scent
flares my nostrils
doing
65 mph:
the
grey & lonely song
of
the windvent soughing
& sucking
like a vacuum
stale
cigarette smoke
that
hangs heavy
in
tile air,
from a distant farmhouse fogging
my windshield
window
comes a solitary light
unaware of my passage
Rt.
250: this ribbon
of
rural road
steering
me towards
a
dim blue horizon
where
cars passing at night
through
the barren countryside
sound
like
a
shadow's sigh . . .
and
in the darkness
of
their wake
the
high-tension wires
whine
like a restless child. . .
even as the wind
tries to lull
the wires to sleep.
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