Transcontinental, Inconsequential

Gold band rings
of sand and sun
on Califonia's suburbia.
The sunshine was gone
when we started our journey,
due east on Interstate 40.
Laissez les bon temps rouler
The Crescent City would sing
once we rolled up in
to her jazz filled streets.
But riding with you
the speaker sounds
moaned low,
the tempo
went slow,
the blues
itself with
the countless
hours of darkness,
that were inturrupted
by spurts of bright lights
that lasted countable moments
in the backcountry dark night.
No left at Albuquerque,
another city you chose
to blow through, though
her faint urban glow
seemed beautiful
in the rearview.—
    The few words
      that passed 
       between us
        sat stiff
        and tired:
    that I shared
  that you shared
   that we shared
     for the sake
   of words' sake
     to be shared.
Instead, we reverted
to the quiet, to dull
the tepid noise
as hours passed hours,
you rushed and you raced,
but what was it all towards?
The rough mountains we passed
had turned into plateaus
in the silent din of darkness;
what was the difference?
How could we've known?
In wintry reticence,
night dwindled to day
the early morning frost,
and desert snow
ran, melted away.
Hours past the last
wooden tower
had gone past,
amidst the swampy mist,
we wound along
a serpentine bridge,
above turbid water
which, to me, made clear
my role not of passenger
but of hitchhiker to this


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *