Asphalt miles vanish beneath ever-thinning treads.
Sometimes a truck passes and the car trembles.
The truck fades, a memory in the rearview mirror,
and in that distance behind us, we see freedom.
In the miles between radio stations, voices crackle
from Mexico from Flagstaff, islands in a static soundtrack.
The lines on the map folded on the dash become
highways through the desert, the smile on your lips.
From pine-shrouded campgrounds to painted ruins,
roadside motels to cars, wrecked and rusting in the desert,
and in the night-crashing waves of the western shore,
we learn the meaning of these secret messages:
rhythm of wheels, music of static, your hand on my knee,
the elegant whisper of trucks traveling the other way.
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
Discover more from Coyote Mercury
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Very nice — the romance of the road, the quintessential American story.
A wonderful sense of place & travel at once. Satisfying to an AZ gal who went to CA. Feels so right.
Thank you both. It’s good to know some of these road poems are working.