Moving on these highways we carry only what we need;
money, a shirt, our looks, brilliance
and memory.
	    Where we drift
in and out of the white lines,
far from the wounded soldiers and disciples
of the root growing philosophy.
                                 Where heroes go 
to find some comfort in a soundtrack of Texas
boogie and Louisiana swing, running along 
the soft moss pastures, red skies 
and fertile black earth. 
                          Where the silence calls 
out answers we weren’t listening for 
in the slumbering ashes of home, going on
a little further with bridges to burn
and green ground to scorch.
                             Where we drive through traffic
because we don’t believe in it, lost in a mirror 
of the dust outside El Paso, freed
from repentance or for a few 
miles more.
             Where wild horses try to break free
of the lonely places they move through;
silently tasting the last kiss and grapefruit
in the morning, on Sunday,
or missing the snow and rain when you want
warm arms, someplace to call
the destination.
                  Where if we don’t have one we just roll on, 
surviving in that Midwestern stoicism, 
‘This ain’t au revoir, it’s I’m gone’.



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