Sometimes the road
runs in the wrong direction
and sometimes you do,
but you’re making good time,
listening to The Band
and Johnny Cash,
stopping only for beer and gas
in the last town before the border,
where the locals eyeball you
by the low sun’s fading beams,
turning away and spitting
into the impossibly red dust
when you threaten eye contact,
and you want to keep on moving
away from everything you know
but that’s always a feeble fantasy.
Even now, as night catches up,
you’re slowly turning around,
cruising back into the low black clouds
where your life lies, waiting to break.
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