It was the night highway.
A place between diners. Where
neon signs slept and traffic didn’t exist;
an area absent of social politeness.
A place where answers came from dreams
and shadows had influence. Where empty
lots and lost dogs crowded near the last
highway sign.
Drive on while tires turn the miles like a
leaky faucet drips a water clock past midnight
and shoulders bear the burden.
He rolled down the window. Cold desert air
fanned him. He knew the wind was full of
wolves, opening the eyes of the moon.
Roger Singer 