Tell me about jet rags.
Tell me about the vertical daggers
in the road all pointing north.
Tell me about Moon Pies & Cokes
you buy conveniently as you drive,
jokes men toss at you
through windows like soiled socks.
Say you are twenty:
you leave the house alone at dusk,
crank up the engine to sail sunset back
to your state now, Virginia, New York,
or Maryland–it makes all of the difference.
When you hit the road to Gretna
you change your mind:
you flip the switch,
cut cruise control, decide:
you´ll stay at the Greenwood,
Route 220, have some fried chicken,
some turnip greens and a cup or two of joe,
one to go so that you can slip into the night
& walk that deep hill to the place where the counties
split and the country roils and rambles
like a feverish dream.
That coffee will slosh
but that´s fine: all will be well,
all manner of thing shall be well
and you´ll wake earlier than the sun
and run down Route 606 as far as you can,
until you see a farmer pitching hay–
there will be new calves in the meadow,
corn in the crib.
You´ll know, somehow,
you´ll run that route
as long as it takes
to make the byways safe
for every mad dog, every hen.
