I-70

Midnight tells you what a road can be,
how the asphalt can dream you up.
250 miles without incident, just out
of radar, testing if it’s tough enough.
How you don’t want to lead the world;
you just want to chase it. Distance
cowers down on state highway signs,
time gets clocked on tachometers.
Run Indy into St. Louis. A capsule
afloat in crackerjacks, coffees, jerky,
Dunkin’ Stix and enough Marlboros
to name a cancer ward after me.
Speed gypsy in love with I-70 West,
chance for pure hurtle, as I imagine
someone else’s memories flickering
out past the breakdown lane, but, no,
it’s trees, rivers, bridges, cornfields,
and worse, things WE owned, stowed,
Viet Nam and high school football,
Holy Rollers limbed to Jesus, angry
lovers as we slammed down the phone,
all that more or less harmed us all,
Speedwayland to Budweiser Town.
You gas it--248 strips down. Barely
there in a Citgo Travel Plaza, ghost
through Terre Haute, where radio dies.
Ford F-150, electron on a neural map,
pulsing free of cops. (God bless tax cuts!)
Somewhere, eastbound, a husband runs
to set up his tabletop display in Akron
by 9 a.m. He’ll sell his guts out. Peace,
my friend, but she wants it both ways.
Shoulda never let her go to the race
at IRP. Nobody told you about a driver
suit? How it’s a soldier’s uniform
for the country of Wild-As-Hell?
How a driver looks when he pulls
his helmet off July nights? Yes!
Exactly! A lit match! Don’t worry.
She knows which way the future
rides, which way the empty truck.