All the Way
Asphalt miles vanish beneath ever-thinning treads.

Sometimes a truck passes and the car trembles.

The truck fades, a memory in the rearview mirror,

and in that distance behind us, we see freedom.

In the miles between radio stations, voices crackle

from Mexico from Flagstaff, islands in a static soundtrack.

The lines on the map folded on the dash become

highways through the desert, the smile on your lips.

From pine-shrouded campgrounds to painted ruins,

roadside motels to cars wrecked and rusting in the desert,

and in the night-crashing waves of the western shore,

we learn the meaning of these secret messages:

rhythm of wheels, music of static, your hand on my knee,

the elegant whisper of trucks traveling the other way.
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Bio
James Brush lives in Austin, TX and posts things online at Coyote Mercury where he keeps a full list of publications. He also edits the online literary journal Gnarled Oak.