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.