Reflector

The dash lights are the only thing

that looks like a future.

Mile marker 42 smells like damp asphalt

and the pine air freshener hanging from the vent.

I drifted toward the shoulder once

and the rumble strips hit my feet

through the thin soles of my sneakers,

a frantic buzzing that says

you aren't supposed to sleep here.

The overhead signs are flat and green.

They glow for a second on the hood,

then slide over the roof and vanish,

telling me names of towns

I have no intention of visiting tonight.