I got out the big car, the flashy one
where your absorbed into the soul of your seat.
We turn on the black roads with no names
past road signs peppered with bullet holes
and other signs pointing each way to towns
and places somewhere to go.
The moon plasters a gray canvas like my
single headlight, beaming a path of night.
Cold and flat, suspended and smoking the
old car slips past cemeteries where we tip
our hats at the crossroads where tales of
life changing like Monday morning sheets
turns the heads each way while praying.
The road is hard as it surrenders the lost
and curious at deserted rest areas where
carved initials in picnic tables tell a story.
Roger Singer 