Lonesome highway blues,
itchy eyes . . . aching head,
steel guitar honky-tonk AM,
. . . an all night run.
Interstate 80 west,
open full moon road,
the creative life blood,
soother of my soul.
She was sitting on a bench
at the last rest stop before Wyoming emptiness
in her paisley gypsy hippie dress,
blond dreadlocks hanging free to a waist slender and taut.
Her eyes betrayed longing sadness only the poet could suffer.
‘A ride Mister?’ she asked without spoken words.
Her backpack and soul
fell into my rickety van
urgently asleep on a mattress
from a late night dumpster
in my last night of confinement
before the reaper came again.
On Medicine Bow Peak
I dropped a sacred crystal
into the empty cairn . . .
an offering to mountain gods.
She smiled approval when she kissed me peace.
An eagle circled above.
Prayer flags fluttered in silent air.
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