Cross-country

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.