I-40

The isolate sensations of an interstate night -
green signs, red taillights, endless yellow lines,
the rouging of clouds brushed by city lights,

the eternal pale curve of the road through the pines.
The thumping of tar seams under my wheels,
the windows rattling, passing county lines

where the cops lurk, waiting behind the hills
for the speeders - I whoop as I pass one by,
sing along with music of road and steel.

Springsteen and I rasp away the miles,
my fingertips drumming on the stick,
clean wind sculpting hair into frazzled style.

On the exit ramps the road's still slick
from the evening rain. The taillights drip
into the road. Headlights flicker

through the guardrail posts on the median strip.
Only habit binds me from a longer trip.