Road Trip

I went to Nebraska last week.

Exhausting hours spent on the freeway,

and radio stations all sounded alike.

Started when the stars were still winking.

Drove until my hands were numb, and

stopped to get a burger that was

surely made of cardboard and pencil shavings.

It was still dark, and I was in a truck stop.

I'd been there before, years ago,

when I was someone else.

Watched the tired and almost ghostly travelers

as they made their way

wherever they were going.

Ate the pencil shavings.

Got back in the car,

after checking out the You Are Here map

and finding that I wasn't really anywhere.

Drove until my bladder screamed,

and then I was in another truck stop.

Blue cushions on a white wicker loveseat

in the ladies' room were torn in places,

but it was clean.

Started driving again,

drove through hours of nothing in particular.

Followed the murky-green road signs

until I got to

Our City.

Got out.

Stretched for years.

Started walking toward the bookstore

where I found that first edition once.

It still smells like pepper and glue;

the smell of old books and lost hours.

The bar next door had live music still,

some local band with nothing to prove, so they were pretty good.

Bakery down the street sells eclairs,

and they melt on your tongue and

make me think of rainy Sunday mornings.

You weren't in any of those places.

And you won't be.

Walked around for hours,

looking, touching, buying, eating.

And I couldn't even feel you.

Twilight was coming,

the sky was violet-blue.

Looked like melted crayons.

Cars lumbered home wearily

after a long days' parking.

The marquee above the theater showed a chick flick and

an action movie would be playing in twenty minutes.

Should've stayed home,

But I'd been dreaming of Nebraska for so long now.

I sat down on the sidewalk

with my bags of books and DVDs and

whole bean gourmet coffee,

and keened for what I have lost.