The vinyl was cold enough to burn my thighs

The vinyl was cold enough to burn my thighs

through the thin fabric of my Sunday pants.

I watched the telephone wires fall and rise,

a long, black wire where the shadow-bird dances.

The dashboard clock was the only light,

a glowing green ghost in the center console.

02:44, a hole in the middle of the night,

marking the miles and the heavy highway toll.

I pressed my forehead to the vibrating pane,

feeling the road in the bone of my skull.

The world was just rain and the ghost of more rain,

a dark, rushing water that made everything dull.