The last few hours

Stretch out in the darkness. The highway begins to tilt upward even though she knows this land is flat like a sea.

She sings lullabies to Betsy Lee, loud, then quiet, but BL doesn’t mind.

She regrets passing rest stations and travel centers, envies the truckers lining these oases with their lights still dotting the parking lots.

She rolls and unrolls the windows of the pickup. Takes a strand of hair and winds it up into the glass. A last resort against falling asleep at the wheel.

From Wharton to Ganado she trails an 18 wheeler. He is her guide. She will be safe if she stays close to him.

She longs for rest like a drug, a glass of water.

So far still to go.


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