Off the highway,
two miles outside of town,
the wind beckons
using a name murmured by strangers.
It writes letters onto the skin of left hand
using an ex lover’s script
and gently presses right foot to pedal.
Open to the sky yet held earthbound,
vulnerable to asphalt and yellow lines,
entangled in turnpikes and exit signs.
Every unanswered desire
is painted inside rear view mirror,
a reminder of the path fate
once predicted, now left behind.
Between the pavement and the stars,
the road speaks violins and lifetimes,
ribbons and balloons freedom and possibilities,
the most gentle of gifts.
On this road two miles out of town,
a longing is conceived,
attached to every rib in cage,
to travel farther, to blister bare feet
with the miles trampled upon.
“Highway” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore (2011).