and paying good money
to dodge these turnpike potholes
from Wichita to Lawrence,
a thin drift of fog lifting
around the ten o'clock
whine of the engine,
80 miles an hour,
the last half-inch
of Old Mr. Boston
passing between us
in the confluent haze.
And all these tumbleweeds!
The wind whipping them at us —
pigweed, bugseed,
the stark dry rasp shredding
in the car's wheelwells,
sticking in the Mustang's grille,
one headlight blinded
and still they come,
dozens of wind globes
hurling themselves at us,
the whole prairie coming
undone, scattering
its seed, the turquoise
dashlights flowing
down our cheekbones
as we shoot through
another underpass,
twenty and drunk and itching
just to be there,
blind and ready.
(for G.L. Dold)
