The center line
Is a metronome,
Wheels drift onto
The berm and back.
Another radio station
Fades into static,
And it’s too much of an
Effort to tune another.
A trucker passes too
Close, so close that
The row of road permits
Can be read.
Everything falls back
To the steady pace.
It’s been like this
For the last two hundred
Miles. Another six
Hours to go.
Driving through America,
Four lanes limited access
America, right across the tops
Of old neighborhoods and wheat
Fields. Self-service fuel
Stops, sandwiches from machines.
More center line.
There’s really no place
I want to go.
There’s really no place
I want to stay.
:: William O. Boggs, Swimming in Clear Water (1989)
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