Mile Marker 114

The flash of the hazards

is the only clock I’ve got left.

Orange light pulses in the cold brown dreg

at the bottom of a paper cup.

A semi-truck tore past just now—

the car shuddered like it was being hit

and my hands are still humming on the wheel.

Four hours since I said thank you

to the girl at the toll booth.

The pines are just a solid wall of black.

I’m parked by a green sign

that says one hundred and fourteen,

waiting for the air to feel

like it belongs inside my lungs again.