I felt kansas flying by in reflections of green sighs.
At 75 mph under the raw tires, hovels and trailer houses
look smaller than life. They pointed me to manhattan and salina
but the dashed lines of hurried mapmakers and the jerked thumbs at rest stops
didn't honestly expect me to visit.
No one exits at mile 117: there are only chryslers running on pure speed straight through
to honeymoon mexico.
The interstate makes america untouchable and
the two-lane highway people too friendly,
manic roving eyes and tongues cannot conceal that
it's been too long since fresh wind blew over these old chicken-grease
lacquered walls, what a treat, god bless, try our steak fries,
they're simply the best, all-american, cracked bathroom tiles,
The gravel pathway squealed, "I told you, I told you,"
and my grease-softened fingers slipped on the wheel.
I spun out dangerously and decided to slip by America on the freeway
heading to the honeymoon mexico that only exists in brochures and bill