The roadsign reads Kansas
another example of language imitating life. The land’s so flat
the wind acts as if it would like to blow you to hell, but you’re modern, this is it: a wheatfield
is a wheatfield
is a wheatfield till you wish. Be careful.
This is that dead stretch they warned you
to cross at night. They were right. If you’re driving
straight through to the Coast, you’re both crazy
by this time, you are not quite the strangers you
may have been when you left.
Neither of you has ever been this far west.
Your companion pops No-Doz, flips the radio dial
every few minutes to make sure
he is where he thinks he is, no fool
like the deejays spinning blind in their booths.
Every station repeats the same news.
You swear you can smell the sea
and he loves it, no question
California, the two of you, the future
you’ve heard a hundred times before. It’s a hit
and it shines on the other side of this landscape
like the light from the setting sun or a star, travelling
at the same speed you are.
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