A Prayer for Eighteen Wheels
They say there are no angels in America but
Sometimes, on the empty road
The ghosts under your wheels sing so sweet
It sounds a bit like a hymn
While you drive the places people dream of--
The hashtag road trip destinations
Vanishing beneath your wheels
Like so many hitchhikers lost in the weeds
It feels, oh it feels, in places you thought you left behind
Maybe like falling, so close to sleep
But caught in the branches of wakefulness
The highway is no bed for you
And the asphalt looks like a landing strip
Strung out beneath Martian moons
Like you at fifteen and drunk
On your mother’s good strawberry wine
That you never acquired the taste for
(Oh but she tried for you, she tried)
And yet you miss the taste of, too sweet
But still not sweet enough to keep you
From this winding endless infernal place
You dare not call home, lest you remember
Another place where you could lay your head
Away from the eyes you pass in the dark
Sometimes, on the empty road
The ghosts under your wheels sing so sweet
It sounds a bit like a hymn
While you drive the places people dream of--
The hashtag road trip destinations
Vanishing beneath your wheels
Like so many hitchhikers lost in the weeds
It feels, oh it feels, in places you thought you left behind
Maybe like falling, so close to sleep
But caught in the branches of wakefulness
The highway is no bed for you
And the asphalt looks like a landing strip
Strung out beneath Martian moons
Like you at fifteen and drunk
On your mother’s good strawberry wine
That you never acquired the taste for
(Oh but she tried for you, she tried)
And yet you miss the taste of, too sweet
But still not sweet enough to keep you
From this winding endless infernal place
You dare not call home, lest you remember
Another place where you could lay your head
Away from the eyes you pass in the dark
Originally Published in New Reader Magazine