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Poetry
Felix Thursday
Time Spent Driving
East on 80
In the rearview mirror is the last
we'll see of California.
No more mission-style McDonald's.
No more Rumi, or pollution-induced
Technicolor sunsets.
We unwrap sandwiches and hold
icy aluminum cans between our thighs;
picknicking at 60 as we cross Donner Pass.
Behind us I-5's cities evaporate
like pillars of salt.
Nevada up ahead! Then Utah, and America
on her back with her legs spread.
The landscape repeats itself like cable TV reruns:
ceaseless horizons, shrubs, rock, and desert plains.
Maybe that's why they're called "plains".
It looks like the backdrop
of those old Roadrunner cartoons:
fathomlessly featureless.
But we don't care, we stare up ahead,
watching the sky for rain or falling anvils.
Unwrap more sandwiches and clutter the floorboards
with empty cans while the truck guzzles gas.
Adjusting our backs to the seat and our eyes
to the road. Roll on buddy,
now we're getting somewhere.