I’ve seen Kentucky through this windshield
three times since January.
In winter Nathan drives
and we’re still tired from the night in St. Louis.
In spring I drive and I remember a story about Whitman
heading our way before turning south.
In summer it’s Tohm’s turn and we stop in Wheeling
to see where the stagecoaches ran out of road,
before the bridge was built,
and now it has collapsed.
The grass is never blue but the river’s always brown.
I haven’t read a book written by a stranger in over a year.
Every time I get into a car there’s a destination.
It’s not like walking.
I always know where I’m going.
On Sunday we rob a grocery store and get out
with three burritos and a six pack.
Tohm is taking us fast through the Allegheny Tunnel
and I use my lighter to open two beers.
Will we sleep better tonight?
Who lives inside these highway trailers?
There are red lights appearing before us like deer eyes
wide and lost under a setting sun.
I don’t say slow down.
We can sleep forever rubbed on this asphalt.
We can dream in sentences buried beneath it.
By Scott Laudati