rest area.

Rows of apricot trees become lines of electrical towers, that look like six armed kachinas. And I do my best to stay awake. My bladder teased by an empty bottle and 49 miles until the next rest area. It’s on this stretch of highway that the horizon becomes dilated and I remember, what it is I’ve been without.

Rows of my dreams have been left unattended, spilling into my decision with wild growth, and I consider opening an arboretum. Embarrassed by scars I should have never been proud of, and late nights spent with silence, Indian ink, and a pin.

Rows of cookie cutter houses become urban castles connected by a cat’s cradle of telephone lines, and I do my best to stay awake. It’s at this moment of the sunset, when headlights become justified, that I get a call from you, on the way to visiting you, falling asleep at the wheel once, twice, twelve times, only to hear you’re waiting up reading Tom Robbins.