On this cemented tightrope of a highway,
Silence lies in wait
For empty tanks and doors off of hinges,
For loose mufflers belching charms of melancholy smoke.
Only here can weathered gas stations
Sell dusty windows and
To unsuspecting wayfarers.
Collectors of stars,
Wander down these solitary roads
Carefully carved into the aching sides of
And in a flashing moment,
Those who see with the blindest eyes
Stagger down the tangled ropes of roads
Holding fast to the rain-slicked roadway
An oil-covered compass their solitary guide
Through tumbleweeds of prickly u-turns
Doomed, they sing the hollow highway songs
Of weary suitcase blues
That rhyme with patchy hotel sheets
And travel-sized tomorrows–
They dance along the shoulder
Of narrow-edged ribbons
Curling up the cliffs of forgotten cities
Swallowed by the moon.
Solitary, cemented ledge walkers,
Collectors of miseries,
Follow the center line
Where desolate highways become
Littered with deserted billboards
And paved with dusty, diesel-filled pain.