Empty towns mark the miles
between wheat fields,
and golden nothing,
accented by the sun.
She is there, the only one,
tying her shoes on the roadside.
She lets the screaming
semi’s pass, and the vans,
and flashy convertibles,
just wanting to be alone.
She drags her feet and kicks
the stones that collect
in the cracks of the concrete.
On her breaks she waves
at the circling buzzards
to let them know she’s
still alive. They never dive
but still they might consider it.
There are ways to get there faster,
in this diesel powered dystopia,
but for now she sleeps
unworried about the time.
Teleporting Typewriter 