the things he sees, so everyday;
and yet their ubiquity masks them,
making them only swept-by mysteries,
colliding with the sunset in a cracked rearview:
eyes narrowed from too-constant focus,
and heart worn thin by the 'eines and 'tines;
his mind's eye no longer a blank canvas,
he lives his life through pictures in magazines;

the dots of landscape fly by and coalesce,
painting a picture he cannot look at:
stories gone as he wanders lonely,
looking for the next good food stop;

and the road hides behind him,
just as much as it lays before;
all he needs is some more,
some more road to get to the end;
more asphalt is his only friend,
since he leaves so much behind;
moving on is just a way
of alternately remembering
and forgetting,
depending on the day;

each trip more than just
a destination,
it's that constant moving,
that gives him just a little

March 20, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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