Spring: Hitchhiking
Another, wasted afternoon
watching yellow lines cross
our crooked eyes.
Teeth bared, towards open windows.
Hands creasing fingertips
and the seams of seats,
between sips
and cigarettes
staining our flesh-
A sickly yellow.
And the roadside
littered with the bodies:
rodents and deer,
dialed in and pockmarked-
A crisscross pattern of nothing.
Skin stretched across
graveled highways.
We knew we’d feel like them,
eventually.
We all end up like them,
when the tank empties out
and our stomachs growl:
thumbs become a way out,
but the tires get too close.
