Fast go, fast show, br with a motor-horse hum br and a savage cat roar, br the world is a br serpentine swerve. br br Muffled music with br thumping, bumping bass br fools the listener with its br accidental genius. br br Turn it up loud, bigger br than the rush of br highway wind, so br that freedom fills br the seats and hushes br the eighteen-wheeler br that grumbles to the right. br br Red spatters on the pavement br turn the head and then the stomach. br The eyes focus sharp br on broken yellow lines, br steering clear of matted fur br and mans' vainglorious pursuits. br br In every whizzing, left-lane car is br a baseball cap or heavy-browed scowl. br In the right lane is white hair br or white knuckles, or both, br close to the top of the wheel. br There’s no one in the middle. br br Near the roadside gravel, br past the ditches and the br jagged, tattooed asphalt, br are the crosses and faded br flowers, wearing banged-up br names that no one slows to see. br The rubberneckers have br long since passed the wreckage, br forgetting what twisted metal br looks like or the scent of spurting br fuel. br br The seat is somehow numbing, br leaving nothing below the waist, br and there’s always a ruptured tire br by the side of the road. br br We pass the defeated traveler, br averting our eyes, br so he won’t be there. br There’s no want for delay br or human complications. br The thumb of a wayfarer has br the makings of a weapon. br Be glad that our tires are br doughnut plump, and br the tank is filled past half. br Drive, drive, drive, and br skid from the transient hitch! br br The mirror reflects nothing br but the slight glow of red, br and the occasional br headlight gleam br of others who br ride the snake. br br A destination br is on the horizon, br as long as we keep driving.