Roads are scars between mountains;
oaths for angels without wings.
Strangers welcome the curves with shadows
and the gray of dusks coverings.
Gas stations close at six. Stay in the car
with the windows rolled up. Hitchhikers
have no place to go. There’s a riddle
between each town hidden under a rock.
Headlights fill the corners with a double
eyed beam passing over those hiding and
unusual animals waiting for the perfect moment
to cross the road.
Cigarettes and gasoline is the perfect perfume
for a late night drive while racing trains
in through valley.
Roger Singer 